Bite Marks
by mjaw
Summary: A bitten Buffy thinks she has lost the faith of the gang and must turn to the vamp who sired her. Meanwhile, bad things are afoot in the Hellmouth, rippling through the dimensions, requiring the help of an older Slayer-Vamp duo to save the world. Again.
1. Claim

Dearest reader,

what you are now about to read is a story that I have toiled with for many a year and that I truly hope you will be dragged into by hook and claw and fang, all of them serving to compel your fingers to write the feedback I feel I rightly deserve for the entertainment of being dragged into _anything_ by hook and claw and fang. If you are only dragged by hook and claw or claw and fang or fang and hook, then something short will suffice. If you are merely pulled, and not dragged, then a word or two will have to do, I suppose. But whether you love it or you hate it, I hope that you will tell me, because otherwise I might as well leave this adventure at the back of my head and be done with it. For the love of all that is holy - R&R!

As for the story itself, remember this - it deals with two universes.

The chapters that are labeled **Sire and Childe** are canon up until What's My Line Again Pt Two of _Season Two_.

The chapters that are labeled **Slayer and Vamp** are canon up until Flooded of _Season Six_.

Now, all I can hope is that the hook and claw and fang won't leave you gutted and bleeding out on the floor. What would your loved ones say?

With love from the author.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter One: Claim**

**Sire and Childe**

He had always known that all it would take was brute strength and luck; the last one in fairly large amounts. It wasn't about planning or skulking around dark alleyways, it wasn't about waiting. Waiting for her to slip. It was about being there, in that moment. It was about recognizing it. Claiming it.

He saw it now. It was right there, like a shimmering halo around her head.

"I'd rather be fighting you anyway."

He meant it.

"Mutual."

She meant it.

He had to smirk. She didn't know that those breaths she was taking were the last mouthfuls of air she would ever taste. Her lack of insight nauseated him. At least he had felt it coming, like brushstrokes on his blank canvas. She was tough, he gave her that. She was the strongest of the Slayers that he had ever fought, and yet it was there, the wish, a little twinkle in the corner of her eye, inviting him. He smiled.

She was beating him. In the very real and literal sense. Her fists were like locomotives on a rail, never missing, never slowing. He took the punches as though they were neat little gifts for him to savor. He would never feel them upon him again.

He would drain her.

Peaches was just about gone. Completely out of it, at least. His blood flowing into Drusilla, healing her insides, taking the sickness away; making her strong. His fierce, dark love. They would hunt together again.

He locked his gaze with the Slayer's. He wanted her to know. He wanted her to feel fear at what was inevitable. He wanted her to bloody crawl. She looked at him with hatred, destruction in her eyes, when suddenly he saw it. A waver. And with it came an opening, and he moved through it, grabbing her by the neck and pushing her down. She had lost her focus for one fraction of a second and it was all it took, there she was, at his feet.

He was on her before she could move, before she could think, before she could protest. His hand at her throat, the tip of his nose gracing hers. He saw something else then, in the green of her irises, something he could not define, didn't have time to.

He vamped out. There was fear. Deep. Crazed. She tensed. He pushed at her jaw; she tilted her head, exposing that softness, that craved slanting of skin. He licked it. Hard. His fangs followed. She relaxed. She tasted like sun-warm earth, like a flawless sunset, like sunlight on cold stone. She was dying.

And then, she wasn't.

**x**

Her head felt as though it was suffering a major hangover. It was aching most deliciously, but the taste in her mouth was coppery and foreign. She made a face, licking her dry lips as she opened her eyes and peered through hanging locks of hair. She felt like a boat left in the water too long, swollen and unfitting in a place she should feel at home: she was in her basement.

She cleared her throat. It wasn't just her head feeling like someone had done the pretty with it and not stayed for the consequences – her whole body, so rudely shifted as she tried to straighten herself up, joined in the flowing pain. She winced, moving her hands to her head, only her arms didn't reach. She furrowed her brow in wonder. She was shackled to the wall.

"What...?" she murmured; the way her throat scratched at uttering the word interrupting the sentence.

"She's awake," she heard a distant voice. "Go get Giles."

"Xand...?" she tried, blinking at the sudden light falling over the stairs in front of her as the door to the first floor opened.

It slid shut slowly, and as darkness settled, the shadows seemed to be stretching for her, enveloping her. Tears rose without explanation and she blinked even more furiously. She turned her head to the right and there it was. There it was. The ache intensifying. Her hand placed itself at the side of her throat. There it was. The bite mark.

She realized then, she wasn't breathing.

Her eyes met Xander's. He looked terrified, and concerned.

It couldn't be happening. She was having an incredibly vivid nightmare. Only, she remembered. She remembered the yellow gaze resting in hers moments before the demon drank its way into her.

Want to hug me now? she wanted to ask. Want to be near me now?

"How long?" she inquired instead, the longing for cruelty abating.

Xander stared at her, as though he had expected her to have a different voice, to look like someone else. Like the newborn devil that she was. Why didn't she feel different?

"How _long_?" she exclaimed.

"Three days," he replied quietly.

She had noticed the flinch.

He's scared of me, she thought, and it was so ironic it almost made her smile.

She heard feet above; the running steps on the stairs leading down from the second floor before the door opened. Brightness. The following second Giles and Willow were in the room as well.

"Buffy," Willow said.

She was gentle. She wasn't afraid. Buffy wondered if she shouldn't be. At the sight of her Watcher, she felt it stir for the first time, like yellow yolk in clean, white cream. The demon.

"Get it out," she said; her gaze in Giles'. "Get it out of me!"

She yanked at her restraints, fighting an inexplicable battle to break free. She felt panic rise like a smoke pillar on the horizon and she set her sights on it, following it, allowing it to guide her. She needed it. She had to thrash this entity out of her pores, seep it out of her brain; drain it away as it had drained her away.

"Oh, God, Buffy," she heard Willow's voice.

"Calm down," Giles instructed. "_Calm down_."

She heard the quiver, though; it was the only thing that reached through the blindness, slapping it away. She could tell that they were giving up hope.

She was clenching her fingers into tight fists, her knuckles whitening.

"We're working on it," he assured, but the words didn't soothe.

She felt her insides loosen, hanging suspended by the insight branding itself on her still heart.

"Angel," she said. "Where is he?"

"He's fine. He's resting," Willow answered. "He lost a lot of blood..."

She trailed off.

Buffy could tell what she was thinking: that so had she; but she had let it flow back down her throat. Why had she done that? How could she do that? What had possessed her to cross that line? It was more like a ditch, for Christ's sakes, and _Spike_. A jolt went through her at the thought of the vampire. It spread wires of electricity along her every nerve and she was alive again.

He's my sire, she thought in baffled horror.

At this recognition a new kind of pain started, like thin needles dancing on tiptoe around the bite. She closed her eyes, willing it away. All of it.

"Why do I feel like this?" she asked, unsure of the question, and knowing none of the others had the answer.

**x**

Giles closed the door taking him out onto the kitchen porch. He looked at the two teens sitting wearily leaned against one another on the top step of the stairs, leading to the edge of a sun-burned lawn. Everything was harsher now, somehow. He had no idea what to do. To lose a Slayer, to have lost Buffy, would have caused a pain he was unsure he could have dealt with; but seeing her in this form created a different sort of ache. It was searing, conclusive.

He took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he had a seat next to Willow.

They were all silent.

"I s she asleep?" Willow asked at last.

Giles nodded slowly.

"I can't believe there's nothing we can do," Xander murmured.

Giles sighed, looking at his hands. They were beginning to look old, he thought. Worn in. Like a good pair of gloves. They knew how to do things. How to find things in books, in earth. But they couldn't save her. They had failed to stop Spike.

They clenched at the name, wringing the letters violently, wanting to twist them out of shape, out of context, as though that would stop time. As though that would undo it.

"If there was anything we could do, the Slayer would be obsolete," the Watcher replied to Xander's statement.

"Her face..." Willow mumbled, her eyes brimming with sorrow. "Didn't even seem like she noticed."

"Not really surprising. She's not Buffy anymore," Xander said flatly. "She's a vampire. Their face is supposed to do that."

Willow clutched his arm tighter, burrowing her nose against the sleeve of his sweater.

"I'm not sure it's that simple," Giles remarked.

"Well, I am," Xander replied, shrugging Willow off and getting to his feet.

"Xander," Willow objected, mostly at the differentiated expression on his face. "I know you don't think that." She swallowed. "It's Buffy."

"No," Xander shook his head. "That thing down there isn't Buffy. You need to wake up, _both_ of you. Buffy is gone. She's dead."

"Stop it!" Willow yelled.

"If you let her loose it'll only be a matter of time before we're hunting her down because she's _killing_ people," he barked back. "Don't you get that?"

Giles could see the anger mixing with the hurt. He understood it far too well. He understood both of them. The need to hold onto the idea of Buffy being Buffy, and the recognition of things having changed forever. And he felt that rip of fright he could see in Xander's eyes at the thought of having to put a stake through Buffy's heart and watch her turn into ashes.

Xander spun around and stormed off. Willow made a small movement as if wanting to rise and go after him, but seemed to change her mind and stayed where she was.

"I'm afraid he might be right," Giles finally admitted.

Willow wouldn't look at him.

"She asked about Angel."

"Yes. She still has her memories. To some extent she may still have her feelings. But the Slayer is dead, Willow. She'll never be the Buffy we knew."

"So we what? We keep her down there? What about Joyce? Should she take care of her daughter like that?"

"We can't trust her now. You know that," Giles answered quietly.

"Please," she grumbled. "Don't say that."

A noise made both of them turn their heads to the door behind them. It had been a low clanking: iron against stone. They exchanged a glance before rising as one to their feet.

The basement was empty.

"This is not good," Willow said.

Giles squatted down to examine the locks of the chains. He ran his thumb over the scratches covering them and moved his gaze to the side until they rested on a rusty nail, tossed aside as it had served its purpose.

"I know where she's gone," Willow stated.

So did he.

**x**

Angel put the newly acquired bags of blood in the fridge, removing his jacket and hanging it on its hook by the door before pausing. He furrowed his brow. He wasn't alone. It was a strange mixture of a scent – something new and yet very familiar.

He turned his head and rested his gaze in Buffy's. She sat curled up on his bed and he thought how young she looked in that moment; like a little girl.

Fledgling.

The word flew through his mind before he could even contemplate what it meant.

Newborn.

Childe.

"Buffy," he said, if so only to sidestep the track his thoughts were on. "How'd you get in? What're you doing here?"

She looked as though he had just told her to leave, like she couldn't believe what he was saying, and he had to wonder if he had ever uttered those words to her before. Probably had, but now they meant something very different. He could see why she would be offended by them.

She scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching with her toes for her kicked-off shoes and nudging them right before sliding her feet into them.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't know why I said that."

"Don't you?" she asked, her eyes in his.

There was defiance, and insecurity.

"Don't go," he said.

She hesitated, but complied, her stance relaxing. Her vulnerability marked her eyes as though they were her new fingerprints; as though the demon had taken away instead of adding on. He supposed it had. That that was what it did.

"I don't know what to do," she finally said, her eyes filling with tears.

He spread his arms and she was in his embrace the next instant.

"We'll figure it out."

All the time her scent, so different, circling, haunting, oppressing. He closed his eyes. She was still Buffy.

A sharp pain shot through his neck and he pushed her away more abruptly than he had intended. She stumbled backwards into the opposite wall, her eyes widening. He stared at her new face. He stared into the sharp green gaze of the demon and he could see her sire there; only for one flitting moment, but it was enough. Disgust and rage filled him in equal measure and he couldn't tell who it was directed at, but he did see her seeing it.

Suddenly the door was flung open and Willow came through it, quickly followed by Giles. They were armed.

"Wait!" he called out.

"Buffy," Willow said, taking in the obviousness of the situation before adding: "It's going to be alright. Just come with us..."

Buffy glanced at Angel. He wanted to stop her, but the following blink she was gone. Willow and Giles had both been pushed to the floor during her hasty exit, and they sat up, looking at each other in honest regret.

Too late for that now, he thought gloomily. I could have handled that better. Just don't go where I know you'll go. Please, Buffy. He can't help you. He won't.


	2. Inn

Dear readers,

many thanks to kryan, gypsystar, WhiteInfinity21, Brunettepet and nichbuket for reviewing. Your words are fodder for my working fingers, you do know that, and I'm so relieved that you're somewhat intrigued or really intrigued or even excited about the prospect of the story and grateful that you let me know!

I can only hope that this second chapter will be to your satisfaction.

A.M.L,

Annie.

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**Chapter Two: Inn**

**Sire and Childe**

She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to go there. She wanted to. It was a hand at the small of her back, urging her on, hurrying her step, making it impossible for her to stop or even to think about what she was doing. She went purely on instinct. It told her to keep moving.

She was angry, sad and disappointed. Exhaustion and hunger seemed to take turns berating her until she felt the warmth of nutrition sliding down her throat. She refused to open her eyes. It was an animal, what kind she really didn't want to know. She threw the small body aside, wiping her mouth distractedly before noticing the lightening skies. Crawling into a musty cave, as far as it would let her, she felt safe and lonely. Closing her eyes she slept heavily until the urge, the hand, woke her, bidding her to continue on the route some unknown force had mapped out for her. She didn't cry, but wanted to.

Noise was noisier even though there was no noise to be heard. Wolves ran between tree trunks; worms sputtered soil beneath the surface of the earth; the wings of bats disturbed the still night air. The sky was bigger, and she thought she could actually count every single star in it. She reached a plain, and then a desert. She didn't wonder where she was. She slept when the sun smiled deadly in the sky. She drank when she needed to. It was sinking on the disgusting barometer – after all, she had never been a vegetarian – though she stayed away from anything that could be construed as a pet. Her thoughts steered clear of what she was becoming. She let it think about left-foot-right-foot and nothing else.

And then, there she was. Suddenly. Standing in front of a homely looking Inn.

There are dead people in there, she thought.

For one terrible second she wished she could taste them.

One taste.

She stared at the light falling out of every single window. Any other passer-by would smile at the warm, welcoming atmosphere. She felt frozen, shivered, put her arms around her, got ready to turn and leave this place. This was not what she had walked, ran, all these nights for. This wasn't right.

She glanced at the door.

It stood ajar.

She couldn't resist it.

His scent was everywhere.

**x**

Drusilla raised her head, her eyes widening.

"Someone's here," she said.

"Great, these are getting stiff."

Spike kicked one of the corpses lazily, sinking further into the couch. It was soft. It was flowery. It was ugly as a Monday hangover, but it was darned comfortable.

"No," Drusilla said, her eyes fixed on one of the large windows. "Someone for you."

"I don't mind sharing, pet."

She wasn't listening. She rose, walking out of the room. His gaze followed her. That was when he sensed it: a presence that descended upon him like the blackest of angels. He knew immediately who it was, but couldn't conceive of the idea that she had actually sought him out. He would have figured her for dust already. Those righteous little pals of hers couldn't possibly have set her free. He didn't even know why the hell he hadn't just finished her off. Well, now he was about to pay for it. One way or the other.

"Bloody hell," he grunted, struggling out of the pink and green, grabbing his duster and pulling it on as he followed in Drusilla's footsteps.

She was by the front door, her hand against its smooth cedar, her eyes still wide, crazed with a triumph he couldn't read.

"Play?" she asked and he smirked, nodding his affirmative.

She clapped her hands before she opened the door with one fluid motion, bringing her arm forward in a hard movement and he heard her palm hit flesh. A second later a body tumbled to the ground somewhere not far off the wrap-around porch. It was covered with a fresh coat of white paint and was the only thing he could tolerate about this sweeter-than-sugar-y establishment. Now he stepped onto it, his eyes meeting Buffy's as she sat up.

Fury sure didn't dissipate with the demon.

Come on, he thought. Show me your true face, Slayer.

He smirked, walking up to the thick wooden railing, leaning against it and tilting his head to one side. She got to her feet, her gaze leaving his for Drusilla's as the latter stepped off the porch.

"I'm not here to fight," Buffy said. "I think," she added, all of a sudden unsure.

"Think again," Drusilla replied coldly.

This oughtta be good, Spike smiled, looking from Buffy to Dru with the glee he felt waving in his gaze, deepening the blue of it.

She must have asked herself twenty times already what she was doing there, standing on a lawn facing two of the more brutal enemies she'd ever been up against and actually feeling as though they – he –could offer any kind of explanation. Actually thinking, expecting him to want to. She had expected him to want to sit her down and listen to her. The bite had done that. The bite had driven her here. Those traitorous puncture wounds and the blood, un-flowing in her veins, had delivered her onto him – her goddamn sire.

The aggravation she felt at seeing him standing there, all in his element, smug as a crisp thousand dollar bill, was something opposite from the satisfaction she had felt at knowing she was at her goal, that she would be able to reach out and touch it. Up until Drusilla's hand-in-chest she hadn't even contemplated that perhaps the goal wouldn't wish to be touched.

She was contemplating it now, though; especially as Drusilla's face went fang-happy and the vampiress slowly began to circle her. She was a graceful predator, her strength showing in every movement, but this was personal for her, and it would weaken her at some point. She was fighting for territory.

Buffy smiled suddenly.

"We honestly don't need to do this. I'm not here for him," she said with a nod to Spike, who cocked an eyebrow. "I'm here for me," she added.

Drusilla stopped a few feet away, a small smile on her lips.

"No, dearie," she replied. "Nothing you ever do ever again will be for you."

She met Spike's gaze and her smile broadened slightly before she moved forward.

Buffy felt the hits, felt Drusilla's hands find the most odd, but painful, spots, felt her nails through her flesh, drawing lines of blood on her skin. She tried to fight back, but the other was too fast. The world slowly began to spin. She couldn't remember the last time she had done this badly in combat. When the highest level of humiliation had been passed, she received a blow to the side of the head and fell in a heap, almost thankful for the cool grass underneath her cheek.

A hand grabbed hold of the collar of her jacket. She moved her eyes, her gaze catching Spike's just as he pulled his arm back. His fist hit her jaw with an explosion and a crackle and everything slipped away.

**x**

"Well, _where_ were they last seen?" Angel exclaimed.

"At the _church_," Willow yelled back, drawing a breath and calming herself down. "Everything was so messed up that night... I don't even know when they disappeared."

Angel looked away from her, his eyes on the bandage around his wounded hand. He stroked it, then clenched his fingers together harshly, wanting to stain crimson onto the white. It would draw a pattern that would lead him to her; or a sign of forgiveness sought for his stupidity.

"I should have sheltered her," he murmured.

Willow reached out a hand and gently made him undo his fist.

"So should I," she said.

He looked at her. He wondered if he had ever truly appreciated what a great friend she must have been to Buffy, through everything. Even through this.

"Sorry, self-pity doesn't really become me," he muttered, getting to his feet off the couch.

They were in Giles' apartment. The Watcher was at Xander's, for another futile attempt at making him talk to him. They should give it up. Harris wasn't made to understand, he was made to condemn. Who could blame him?

"Want some coffee?" Angel asked Willow, who nodded.

She flipped aimlessly through one of the books they had before them. Location spells, different charms to help them find the way, retrace the roads Buffy had taken, trying anything to find her; none of it resulting in anything conclusive. It was as if her person had scattered into hundreds of little bits that all had chosen their own path.

"You know Spike better than anyone," Willow began.

"Not better than Dru," Angel interrupted.

She smiled at the light tone in his voice.

"Fine. But you do know him. And you know Dru. Why not take a wild guess? It wouldn't even have to be too grr."

He leaned against the kitchen counter, meeting her gaze through the window-in-the-wall.

"I know them too well to think it's worth it. They can be anywhere. And I mean - anywhere."

"Okay," Willow said slowly. "Then can't you use that vampire mojo and feel where they are?"

Angel smirked.

"You know my mojo's broken," he replied. "Couldn't even feel them arriving in this town, that ought to tell you something."

Willow sighed.

"Right. Well, I think we've pretty much exhausted all we're going to get out of the books. Magic isn't working. Clearly. But... Angel. We have to find her. If she's trying to find Spike..."

"Oh, it's been over a week. She's most likely found him by now," he stated.

Her eyes grew.

"He'll kill her, won't he?" she asked, breathlessly.

Angel's first urge was to lie, to protect her from the worry he felt slithering like an agitated serpent between his ribs. But he thought better of it.

"That," he therefore concurred. "Or worse."

**x**

It wasn't subtle, the agony. It shimmied through her as though it belonged there; as though it knew every last nook of her; finding ingenious new routes through her. Drusilla hovered close by, a velvet clad mercenary, smiling and damning. Magnificent in her timelessness. Buffy could trace it now: the age. The eras the vampiress had witnessed, had lived; how the wisdom within her mixed with a hint of her former madness, and the cruelty of her fine lips made her seem even more lifeless than she was. Like a doll.

Buffy bit her jaws together as Spike trailed the tip of a blade between the hem of her sweater and the leather pants she was in. He stepped near her, his face, his forehead almost touching hers. He observed her intently and she knew that he wanted her to meet his gaze. She refused. Even though all she wanted was to have one long, hard look at him. She wanted to see if this really was it for her, and something told her the answer would be right there, in his eyes.

She hated him more than ever in that moment, because she understood with a pang, which resounded much too deep down to not be true, that whatever link had formed between them would not be easily broken. Not even this made her want to leave. She might feel the need for a prompt escape, but somehow she knew she would come back. Again and again and again. Until he listened.

What he was supposed to listen to she barely knew herself. She hadn't said two words since she woke up in what she assumed was the basement of the Inn. She was tied to the stairs, her arms over her head, her wrists bound together and tethered to the railing. She was standing, but she felt it was only a matter of time until she lost consciousness again. She could feel blood trickle down around her ankles.

She wanted to scream at him. Curse him for what he had done to her. How he had spirited away everything that mattered. She didn't know herself anymore; how could she deny her friends the right to be guarded?

Friends. Family. Her mother.

She couldn't think about that now.

She whined, the knife sliding carefully into her, like a lover letting her in on a secret, whispering it to her, tempting her.

She couldn't take it anymore.

Her head felt as though it was pushed down by menacing hands, but she moved it, her gaze meeting Spike's. She couldn't stop herself – she had to smile.


	3. Links

Dear readers and reviewers (because there is a slight distinction):

Forgive the lateness of the update. Work and weddings have taken up most of my time these last few days. I will try to ensure that updates never take so many days again, you have my word on that.

I already am much obliged to kryan, Brunettepet and nickbuket for reviewing - and beautifully so - but I would love to be obliged to more of you so please, leave your thoughts. I've always found it so frustrating to see the stats for the first chapter stating that it was read by 244 people and then the figure has dropped by twenty or forty by the second chapter. Why - oh, you dropped away forty? Tell me so I don't have to pull my hair out in wonder! :) (I might have to regret that, I guess, so I'll add no flames, please. I scar much too easily and burning doesn't seem a very enjoyable prospect - I don't even own a fire extinguisher!) Now, of course, I find it even more frustrating not knowing WHAT it is that keeps you other 204 reading! I'm happy to have you simply be part of the statistics of the story, don't get me wrong, but it would be so awesome to answer the question of what it is about the story that has hooked or clawed or fanged you to stay.

Alright, that's all. If you're merely a reader and never a reviewer then I suppose my muse will have to be content with that, though she has a tendency to get terribly cranky when she doesn't get fed and, well, you're the only ones who can feed her. :)

Again, kryan, Brunettepet, nichbuket - you guys are shining stars in the sky of my muse! :)

Enough from me, here's the newest chapter.

Remember what I said: Chapters marked _Sire and Childe_ are set in **Season Two**. Chapters marked _Slayer and Vamp_ are set in **Season Six **(the last we have seen of Buffy and Spike interaction that is canon with the show is them sitting on her porch after Willow and Giles have their row and Buffy asks Spike about advice on her finances. Episode: Flooded.)

Hope you will enjoy!

With thanks and all my love,

Annie.

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**Chapter Three: Links**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

The Slayer walked across the damp earth of a freshly dug grave. She read the name on the headstone and paused for a moment before moving forward again. Nothing in that coffin but a body that wouldn't be rising until the biblical Armageddon, if there was such a thing; she had begun to muse over it. Until it occurred, at least the literal Armageddon's didn't wake the dead.

She scratched her arm, looking straight ahead and, as always at this time of day, feeling both exhausted and yet intensely aware of everything around her. She was a sleepwalker with a vivid nightmare. And no amount of pinching could wake her from it.

She didn't knock on the door of the crypt. She simply didn't feel any need to.

He wasn't in sight, but she could hear something heavy being dragged across the floor downstairs. For a shadowed second she was convinced he was killing again, and it brought back images of a dream, which she had had still tumbling around in her head when she woke that morning.

She took a few steps forward, thinking she could smell a hint of Drusilla's perfume. Dried roses and antique lace. She took another step when the noise died away and made her stop, her shoulders stiff in anticipation.

She hadn't felt this jumpy around him in a while, and the very realness of this fact was like a tension along her spine, pressing in on her nerves. He came climbing up the ladder, his head leading the way wearing a small smirk. Lately, she found herself always relieved to see him. Around him she could be silent; she could drift off, knowing that no one would disturb her. She could allow herself to breathe through the pain instead of swallowing it down in protracted gulps.

"Evening," he said, tugging the trapdoor to him before letting it slam shut over the hole-in-the-floor.

Hiding something? she thought.

"Hey," she murmured, suddenly uncertain.

Of everything.

"You got a stiff down there or did you get hit by a sudden inspiration to redecorate?" she added, hoping her tone was as non-consequential as she had intended.

He smirked, eyeing her for a prolonged moment before walking past her. He so clearly hadn't been fooled by the false innocence of the question and she wondered why she felt the overwhelming need to apologize.

"Look," she began.

"Oh, go ahead, take a peek, if it'll make you ease up a bit. Not always jump to conclusions."

He added the last with a slight, but meaningful, leaning forward. She stared at him and realized he meant it. It made her feel stupid. And mean. And feeling that way towards Spike made her confused. He was waiting for her to reply.

"We're having a meeting and I thought you might want to come," she changed the subject.

"'Want'?" he asked, eyebrows raised, his hands busy pouring bourbon out of a thin bottle.

She made a face at the drink before elaborating with:

"Should. You should come."

"Why? Thought we'd established quite a fine routine with you coming here kicking my door down whenever you feel inclined to abuse my services. No bloody need to change a thing when it's working."

"Spike."

"I don't wanna come," he practically whined. "It's boring. I had to sit through, oh, I dunno, five of them this summer and it was the longest bloody hours of my life. Being buried in the ground for two months didn't seem that sodding long. Rupert with his going on and on about the buggering threats and the vices and the 'need for speed'. Bloody hell!"

She forced the smile down, watching him swallow the bourbon in one mouthful.

"Has Drusilla been here?" she asked.

His eyes widened with wonder.

"_What_?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Giles said it was important."

"Oh, so that was you trying to mask the telling me to come into an asking me to come, yeah?" Spike inquired.

She smiled sweetly, knowing he would comply. He got his duster under heavy grumbling, holding the door open for her as they stepped outside.

"You have to stop being polite to me, pet," he commented as they began the walk to Giles' place. "It's unsettling."

She smirked, glancing at him.

**x**

Spike entered the apartment of the Watcher as if he stepped into a den of Whedonians.

Not particularly because he felt threatened – not at all because he felt threatened, actually, but because he felt like a wallflower, and if there was one feeling he loathed, it was that one. They were getting used to him. Even the thought tasted bitterly. They were far from accepting him, but his presence barely caused a stir in Monkeyboy anymore, and so he knew it was bad.

"Have a seat," Buffy more or less instructed, as was her manner, before heading into the kitchen.

He chose the third step of the stairs, it granting him the best viewpoint of the room. He tried to feel anything akin to disgust at this gathering, looking at Willow and Tara, who happily arranged cookies on a tray, and Xander, who was telling Anya what not to do with a rod-iron. He felt semi-interested in the exchange when he heard the words "painful", "heavy" and "bleeding". Then got distracted by Buffy's hair.

He snarled, quite softly, and to himself; immediately telling him to grow a pair, get up and get the hell out of there. Without saying anything. No excuses, no reason, just leave her to it. Bloody bint. Then she tossed her hair so it fell behind her shoulders, as was her custom, and he swallowed. Sod it. He was staying. He had to stay. She'd more or less asked him to be there.

The merciless side to him chose to remind him of the comment she had dropped earlier. No, nothing had changed. She came to him for a solace she didn't recognize, and he willingly let her near him, even though she didn't trust him.

Part of her does, he told himself stubbornly.

He watched her as she moved up to the couch, sinking down next to Xander. She seemed to freeze for a moment, her brow furrowing.

"God, that's weird," she muttered. "I could have sworn it felt just like..."

She trailed off, a hand going to her head. She'd been distracted ever since she was brought back from the grave, but this was a new side to it. He felt he should ask her about it, but knew it was crossing a personal boundary they had set up a long time ago and that she'd blow him off. So there really was no point, was there? He took a bite of the cookie Willow had just tossed him, concluding, mildly irritated, that it was tasty. Giles came into the room and the aggravation level notched itself up.

"Here we go," he grumbled.

**x**

So it turned out the big threat was nothing more than a suspicious disturbance near the place of the Hellmouth, and Giles felt it important that they check it out post haste.

"I liked the post haste bit the most," Spike said, so dryly that Buffy was compelled to smile widely.

The expression felt unfamiliar.

They were nearing the site of the old high school. It had been pretty much cleared away; only a few pieces of wreckage paid homage to the events having taken place what felt like decades ago. Buffy stopped on the patch of grass leading up to the large dirt field. This nondescript mass of land had been host to a building which had served as background to so many good and bad memories. And it still held the gape of the Hellmouth beneath its tranquil earth.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, what?"

"Feel anything?"

"Depends on what you mean."

She gave him a look and he smirked.

"Not a thing," he replied. "Whatever it is, it's far away."

"It's supposed to be right here."

"Right here?" he asked, pointing to the ground.

"Oh, just shut up," she said, stepping forward.

"Wouldn't do that," he stopped her.

"Thought you said you couldn't feel anything."

"Doesn't mean I want you bloody traipsing around like there's not a thing there."

She smiled.

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

"I am _not_ worried and get _back_ here."

She walked forward, ignoring him blatantly. Her story had begun here: she just wanted to feel part of it again. She kneeled down and dug her fingers into the soil.

Suddenly a breath of hot air was wafting around her, circling her, caressing her. She straightened herself up, quietly mesmerized by the sensation. A hand grabbing her arm tightly startled her, her head whipping to the side, her eyes meeting Spike's. He escorted her back to the curb and she couldn't decide if she was annoyed or grateful.

"Al_right_," she exclaimed once they reached solid asphalt, pulling loose. "Jeez."

He was looking back at the spot they had just left.

"What?" she asked, following his gaze.

"There's something there now," he murmured.

**x**

"This is unprecedented," Giles stated a few hours later.

Buffy looked over at him. She was half asleep, enjoying the laziness with which her thoughts were coming to a standstill inside her head. It felt like the last drawn-out note of a beautiful melody, that perfect ending to a wonderful thing. Another day over. Hours of rest. She slept heavily these days. Suddenly she remembered the dream she had had. She wondered what it could mean.

"What?" she now forced her mouth to work in response to Giles' former utterance, though the word wasn't as articulated as it could have been.

Giles looked at her.

"You're tired," he said.

"Aw, you noticed," she smiled.

He returned it, watching her in silence for a moment before shutting the book with a bang.

"Time you were on your way," he encouraged, getting to his feet.

"No, no, I wanna hear about the president stuff."

His smile widened.

"Tomorrow," he assured.

She got to her feet.

"Night," she yawned, grabbing her coat.

"Good night," he said; eyes on the door as it closed.

**x**

Buffy shut the front door behind her. The house was sleeping in homely midnight darkness. She pulled her coat off, hanging it up but missing the hook and as she walked into the living room the garment fell to the floor, crumbled in a pathetic heap. She looked at it, her eyelids having trouble staying up, and decided it looked pretty where it was before continuing into the kitchen. She paused in the doorway, her brow knitting slowly.

She looked around the empty room.

Everything was as it should. Nothing had been moved or placed differently. Yet she had the most overwhelming conviction that...

She turned around.

Nothing.

She drew a shivering breath.

"Mom?" she finally called out.

The stillness was oppressive with the lack of a response.

She finally smiled, shaking her head at herself and getting the glass of water she had come in there for, continuing upstairs, to the welcoming folds of her bed.


	4. Unfinished

**Chapter Four: Unfinished**

**Sire and Childe**

She was on a chair. Her hands tied behind her back. Her hair was caked with drying blood; her skin was stiff with it, her nostrils filled with its scent. Slow, excruciating hunger ground her insides. Her strength had left her hours ago as ounce by ounce her force of life was tapped from her. Cut by cut. Inch by inch of skin was covered with them.

She could hear Dru cackling. It made her raise her head. Her eyes met Spike's. They had moved her from the basement into the dining room of the Inn, which was tacky, paying homage to frills and porcelain figurines galore, but it didn't deserve the grittiness of the scene. Spike was sitting on a polished wooden stool, its legs curled dramatically beneath the cushioned seat. Presumably the piece was meant to look antique. It failed miserably.

He smiled softly. Buffy felt sudden hatred towards him; it wrapped its silk around her neck as though telling her to wear it proudly. She yanked at her restraints, cutting them further into her wrists.

"What's this?" Drusilla's voice came from somewhere close.

Buffy felt fingers pull her hair back, the hold tightening, forcing her to tilt her head. The vampiress leaned over her, her dark brown eyes nearly black in the gloom surrounding them.

"Still there?" Drusilla wondered, patting Buffy's cheek to the point of slapping it before releasing her grip and moving around to stand next to Spike, placing one hand lightly on his shoulder. "She's still there," she announced.

He blinked, glancing up at his lover before rising to his feet.

Buffy lowered her head again. The fight nearly over, she felt. He came up to her, his face in front of hers as he placed one hand on either knee, leaning forward.

His nearness had become a strange state of guilty euphoria. She couldn't tell when she had come to revel in it, but she could sense the dislike emanating from Drusilla, and so she took pure pleasure in every moment he was close. It was a resting place for her broken warrior, from which it could observe its formidable enemy having an Achilles heel.

She felt his fingers beneath her chin, lifting her head up. She met his eyes with her own, his gaze like coolness of water sliding through her.

"Let me," Drusilla offered.

Buffy could hear the muscles of her face shift as she vamped out.

"No," Spike said simply, his touch disappearing as he straightened himself up.

Drusilla stared at him.

"We finish this," she protested.

"I thought you were enjoying yourself," he replied flatly.

"I have been," she confirmed. "But now I wish to finish it."

"No," Spike repeated. "Fun's just beginning."

"_Spike_."

He gave her a look. She stared in disbelief, her brow furrowing slightly, and then she was human once more, stepping close, wrapping her arms around him, resting her cheek against his chest.

"Please, Spike," she said, voice low, eyes in Buffy's. "I'm bored with her. Let's you and me go find a new toy. Do it, Spike. Do it for _me_."

Buffy saw through it, the act, the sudden mask of innocent pleading, and she understood that it was a well-rehearsed dance. All the vampiress had to do was twirl in the right manner and Spike wouldn't be able to take his eyes off her. He would follow her lead, no matter where it took him.

Now he stroked her back before his hands slid up and undid her embrace.

"Sorry, baby," he mumbled, kissing her on the lips, but she was stiff with the rejection.

Buffy pressed down the smile rising, mostly because it would hurt too much to produce it.

Drusilla's eyes were streaked with anger, threads of gold in her otherwise dark irises. She turned and left the room. Her presence still lingered, though her form was no longer there, always quiet as a ghost and just as haunting. She seemed to hide in the darker corners of the room.

Buffy leaned her head against the high back of the chair. She was quitting now. With the small victory she had just been handed, she felt she was done. She shut her eyes. There was her mother, turning around and smiling, happy to see her. There were Giles and Willow and Xander, bent over books, researching. There were candles. There was a flash of Angel's face. Then it was gone.

She felt Spike's wrist as it pressed itself against her lips. And she began to drink.

**x**

Spike ripped a piece of cloth from a kitchen towel, wrapping it around the fresh puncture wounds before walking into the bedroom he and Dru had chosen for themselves. It was the one room that didn't look quite as much as though a murder of potpourri had recently occurred in it.

"Time to move soon, love," he said, watching her as she slowly ran a brush through her long, dark locks.

"I suppose you want to bring her."

"I suppose," he muttered, rubbing his forehead uncomfortably.

"You suppose?"

"Dru."

She froze at the edgy tone in his voice. He was beyond caring. He felt strange, and disliked it.

She put the brush down in a languid movement, her slight wrist bending ever so little before her fingers released the object and the hand joined its twin, resting on her lap. She looked at him, her eyes earnest in a way that was uncommon with her. This was important to her, then.

"I understand," she said gently. "I do understand what you're going through, don't think otherwise. But..." She rose and came up to him. He wanted her to touch him. That familiar touch, to chase away this new one. She stopped before him, hands at her sides. "You made the decision to sire her. Not me. She's _your_ childe, Spike, and I don't want her near me. She stares at me as though she's never seen me before."

He furrowed his brow.

"And you find that... disturbing?"

"She isn't one of us and she never will be. There's something wrong with her."

"Don't bloody start," he grumbled, moving away from her and sitting down on the bed.

"Bringing her with us will only slow us down."

"She'll heal. We can wait a day." Drusilla's eyes widened dangerously and he hurriedly added: "You took her down with a few blows. She's not up to full strength yet. And with the blood loss... Once we get to Florida, I bleeding well swear to you, I'll stake her myself."

Drusilla observed him in tightening silence. She finally chose to shatter it with words that fell heavily on his ears as they entered uninvited.

"Every hour, every minute that she is near us she learns. She has inherited the memories as well, you do realize that? She will get stronger before too long. She's a liability, Spike. A burden I cannot carry for miles and miles for some fixation you've gotten in your head. We agreed to leave this country. You and I."

"And you and I will leave this country," he replied, tensing at the insinuations she was making. "I will kill her." He put the toe of one boot to the heel of the other and slid his foot out. "In Florida," he finished.

She sat down beside him, her hands taking his, but the touch was too late, the moment had passed, and the sweetness of it was nothing but melting snowflakes on his skin. She was about to say something, but stopped as the tip of her finger felt the cloth around his wrist, hidden thus far by the sleeve of his duster. She pushed it up, staring at the red spot soaking the fabric. She pulled on the knot and the makeshift bandage fell away. Her stare grew ever more focused until she moved it to his eyes.

"Oh," she murmured. "Oh, what did you do?"

"Drusilla," he tried, but she rose and disappeared all in the blink of an eye.

**x**

"I can't stand this," Willow stated.

"Fine. You take the crossbow and I'll take the stake," Xander said, handing her his weapon.

She shook her head with a slight smile, making him lower his arm with the crossbow still in a firm grip.

"I mean - Buffy," she said.

"Let's not talk about it," he muttered.

She drew a breath, wanting to go into a tirade and tell him to damn well get over himself already and that she was hurting too, but that _she_ didn't see any need to keep it all in, like she had a jar-lid on top of her head that refused to open so that she would have to get a knife and try and find an air pocket, only she couldn't, so she wasted energy just struggling with the lid again and it _still_ wouldn't _open_.

She turned her head to him.

"I don't know where to stick the knife to find your air pocket," she admitted apologetically.

He frowned.

"I'd rather you didn't stick the knife to find my anything," he replied.

The sound of running steps came from behind them and they exchanged a glance before swirling around, weapons held high. Xander semi-instantly remembered his was actually supposed to be held in front of him and quickly readjusted. Only, it wasn't a foe: it was a friend.

"Kendra?!" Willow exclaimed; taking a step forward as the other came to a halt before them, Willow's arms held out to embrace the slayer, who shied away in demonstration of excellent reflexes. Willow drew her arms back again. "Right," she said. "Sorry. Hi."

Kendra smiled, glancing at Xander.

"Hello," he greeted and she nodded.

"It is nice to see you again," she said to both of them.

"When did you get back? I'd no idea you were coming," Willow informed.

"It was not scheduled. But my Watcher heard what had happened. I could not believe it."

"No, it's pretty hard to believe," Xander agreed. "Let's walk. With you here I'm feeling much more into this whole mission of patrolling."

"That's very manly of you," Willow smirked.

"Yes, I always tell myself so."

"Hah-hah," Willow said.

Kendra looked from one to the other.

"I am very sorry," she said seriously.

The other two lost their smiles as if robbed of them forever.

"Thank you," Willow replied.

She almost added "But Buffy isn't dead, you know"; thinking better of it as the truth of it was that Buffy wasn't exactly breathing, either.

**x**

She woke from fingertips running over her skin. It took her another moment to come out of sleep. Once she did, she jerked her head up, meeting Spike's gaze as he turned his eyes in hers where he was standing, leaned over her.

His scent filled her nostrils and kicked her senses until they were trembling and alert. His hands ran down her back, lifting her sweater and slipping over smooth skin. Her lips were dry, her lips were slightly parted, and an ache was pleasantly beginning to burn between her legs that was so unexpected and yet not, that she drew her first involuntary, unnecessary breath.

Hotness filled her lungs until she thought they would explode.

He smiled, pulling back and squatting down before her, balancing on his toes as he rested his arms on his knees. She felt sick, and didn't know which sensation to blame.

"You've healed nicely, love," he said.

She mustered a glare.

"Don't call me that," she grumbled.

"What? Love?"

He smirked, straightening himself up. Her eyes followed his every movement, suddenly starved and un-cooperating. He brought his right leg forward, sliding it slowly, until their knees touched. Her glare intensified, but another breath was in her throat, a shaky traitor. His knee pushed on hers, sliding between them and effectively parting them. She heard static in her ears, like a choir of angels hissing their damnation. His knee slid further. Her gaze didn't leave his. Her mind was like the eye of the storm while her body was raging and twisting. She had never in her life felt anything like it.

His knee met her groin, her thighs suddenly clenching his of their own accord. The expression in his eyes was changing from mockingly amused, to something as deep and dark as the wilderness growing within her.

Then the door to the Inn opened, Spike was steps away from her in an instant, and the obscuring branches pulled back. Somehow the clear view seemed the unusual state and Buffy didn't know where to look. She felt exposed, weak. More than she ever had in his presence. And Drusilla's gaze was drilling its way through the stillness until she might as well have been screaming where she stood, quiet as a statue.

"Dru," Spike greeted. "I was looking for you."

She didn't move a muscle in response. Buffy slowly brought her eyes into hers, and Dru's face settled in a mask of disdain. One of her hands slid out from its hiding place in the folds of her long skirts, and she reached it out to Spike. It held a stake.

"It's time."

Her voice was calm, her gaze was not.

Buffy felt her eyes pulled to the shape of the age-old weapon. How many times had she not swung one of them into the chest of a demon, into the heart of a vampire, splintering its ribcage in the process? And now that low, crunching sound would be the last thing she heard on this earth. How funny, how ironic, how horrifying.

"Put that away," Spike said impatiently.

Drusilla lowered her arm, her eyes in Buffy's for another long moment, before she turned and walked up the stairs. Her back was straight, but her posture spoke of some sort of hurt and Spike followed without ado.

Buffy tried to move her hands, but to no avail. The knots were too tight. She looked around for any sharp object that could serve the purpose of freeing her, but saw nothing. And all the while she had to struggle with the side of her that wanted to stay there, in the dark, in that chair, waiting for him.

She bit her lower lip so hard it drew blood, and closed her eyes.

**x**

Spike nearly kicked the door off its hinges as he entered the bedroom.

"If you're gonna react like that, then _don't_ bloody well _do_ that in _front_ of her," he exclaimed. "You buggering said it yourself - she's _my_ childe. I'm not bleeding well finished with her yet! Now leave it alone."

Drusilla gripped the stake until her knuckles creaked.

"I can smell her on you," she said, tossing the stake on the bed. "Fool," she added coldly.

"Baby," he said, voice softening and the warmth of it spreading into his eyes. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"She's pretty; in an ugly sort of way," Drusilla replied, and he smiled, reaching out a hand and taking one of hers.

"Let me show you just how irreplaceable you are, love," he said.

It took a few seconds for a hint of a smile to show itself on her mouth, but when his lips met hers, they parted in anticipation.

**x**

Buffy listened; her jaw crushing her teeth together at every new sound, every new sigh and moan. She heard hands sliding over skin and slowly, steadily, a glowing heat began to spread, mimicking what she had felt earlier in the haughtiest of fashions, making goose bumps spread. She hadn't realized how much she hated Drusilla until that moment, but she did. She really did hate her.

**x**

Giles stepped onto the porch of 1630 Revello Drive. He had a knot in his throat that wouldn't be swallowed away, but he was determined to do this. He simply had to. He rang the bell; soon enough the door opened. Joyce smiled at him, wearily, inviting him in. He could tell she had been crying again.

They sat down in the living room, after he had declined both offers of tea and coffee.

"Joyce," he said, completely forgetting the words he had prepared as he looked at her, saw her sitting where he had seen Buffy sit dozens of times, remembering that this was her little girl he was about to tell her of. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I am not sure how to begin."

He took off his glasses, polishing them slowly; thinking. After a minute had ticked past, he replaced them and his eyes fell on one of the African statuettes Joyce had collected around the house.

Turning his eyes in hers he met her quizzical expression with a bit more confidence.

"That is from the Aruru tribe, is it not?" he asked with a slight nod to the artifact.

"Yes, a fertility goddess. Her name was Mnene. She was killed by hunters as a child, but her soul grew so wise that the gods favored it above all else, and adopted her into the heavens, where, I hear, she helps women who have trouble conceiving, and when sacrificed to, she keeps their babies safe. Her husband..."

"Joyce."

She stopped, blinked, one hand touching her forehead briefly before she smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry. It seems, these days, either I can't find anything to say, or I can't stop talking."

"I don't mind," he shook his head. "But there's something I have to say, and it won't be easy for you to hear. You may not even believe it. I was hoping, given how well-rehearsed you are in many of the mythological aspects of our world, that you will agree to keep an open mind."

She frowned.

"What is it?" she asked. "Has it got anything to do with Buffy? Did she leave you a note? Did she call you? Send any kind of message? I still can't believe that she would leave without giving me any hint as to why or where... What if she's _dead_?"

He grabbed her hands, making her calm down, her eyes filling rapidly with tears.

"She isn't," he said carefully. "But..."

Joyce stared at him.

"But, what?"


	5. Wicked

**Chapter Five: Wicked**

**Sire and Childe**

The wind came howling from the ocean as if it knew their dark deeds and wanted to scare them off its shores. They weren't easily discouraged, though.

Spike kicked at the lock of the heavy front door before which they stood. Buffy lay unconscious in his arms. The lock gave way with a splintered yell and he pushed the door open. Dru slipped in, leading the way with a "Come in". She had been here once before, long ago, when the house was newly built. The architect had been as exquisite as his art, apparently.

The softly curved walls of the building did even more amazing things to the inside than the outside, and lent the illusion of a breathing space. Large panorama windows faced a vast and deserted beach, stretching its clean, soft sand down to the turbulent waves of the sea. The house was decorated in whites, blues and grays. Aquatics were embraced, however tenderly: a few seashell pictures on one wall; a blown up photograph of a flock of seagulls. Spike looked around.

"Now this is what I'm talking about," he smirked.

Drusilla smiled her approval, sliding open the glass doors leading onto a deck. The breath of the Atlantic filled the room, swirled around them, moved Buffy's hair so it stroked his cheek. He turned his eyes on her face, his gaze drifting to the two scars he had left on her neck. Sun-warm, sunset, sunlight. His hold tightened.

"Bring her in here," Drusilla's voice came from somewhere above.

He hadn't noticed her move.

He looked up. Her face was leaning over the banister of the stairs, which wrapped around the walls, delivering their ascendant to different landings, each outside a new room. Soon he stepped over the threshold of the bedroom Drusilla seemed to have chosen for their liability.

She stood by the bed. It was made of darkened oak, its headboard carrying an intricate design of flowers, waves and birds that for a second looked alive –their beaks pointy and threatening. He blinked the image away and brought Buffy over, placing her on top of the gray blanket covering the bed. He could feel Drusilla's eyes on him and hurried his movements, stepping away.

"Tie her up," Drusilla instructed.

"I was going to," he bit, annoyed for no reason.

He grabbed the rope-imitations hugging the curtains into agreeable shapes, pulling them off roughly and bringing them over to the bed. He tied them in hard knots around Buffy's wrists, then around the posts of the bed. She stirred. He stepped back again. She opened her eyes, her gaze finding his easily.

He didn't know what she was looking for, but she searched his face as if it was a map that could show her something, take her somewhere. Hunger would do the strangest things.

Then he heard laughter from downstairs, and feet that stumbled inside. His eyes were in Drusilla's and the next moment they were in the large sitting room, ready to greet the returning owners.

**x**

There was scuffling, something being knocked over, a yell of surprise, and then a scream. It rang, high-pitched and incredible in the calmness of the dark house, as though it was an alarm going off. It chased away the lethargy and made Buffy's head snap up. Her muscles tensed. She strained to get loose. She had to stop it; if she so had to kill Spike. The bed groaned beneath her, its joints cracking promisingly. Just a little more.

Then he appeared in the doorway.

It wasn't until she relaxed that she realized how much damage she had managed to do to the innocent piece of furniture. Spike's eyebrows rose at the sight of the splintered wood on either side of her. He approached her. She felt anger, but more than that she felt frustration.

He sunk down next to her, propping himself up on one arm before bringing cool fingertips before her mouth. The scent of the fresh blood which covered them was like a toxin that raced through her. The hunger stepped forward, widening its gape in expectation.

"Go on," Spike encouraged, his hand drifting close by.

The scream was still echoing in her head. She relaxed back against the pillow, turning her head away from him. He grabbed her chin with his other hand, forcing her to look at him.

"This is who you are," he grumbled impatiently, his fingers tracing blood onto her lips before he let his hold go.

She clenched her jaws together harshly. He smiled then, the tip of his nose connecting with the corner of her mouth, sliding over her cheek, his voice in her ear as he whispered:

"If you won't feed you'll start to decompose. Dru and I'll have to bury you 'cause you won't be smelling too good, which is a bloody hassle in itself; but an eternity in dark, dank earth. Is that really what you want? One little taste, love, and I swear it'll be worth it."

She didn't want to listen, turning her head from him again and then his nearness was gone, and she was alone.

**x**

Willow looked up as Angel entered the apartment. He was the last to arrive. Xander and Giles sat on the couch, Oz sat on one of the armrests of the easy chair she was in, and Kendra stood in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest, her face growing solemn at the sight of Angel.

"What's going on?" the vampire asked, once he had taken a seat as well.

"We're giving up," Giles replied. "Not all together," he quickly added at the sight of Angel's disbelieving expression. "We have tried everything, every resource we know, to find her. None of them have paid off. And now there's something else."

"What 'else'?" Angel demanded.

"Something is wrong in the Hellmouth," Giles said.

"Are you serious? When isn't it? And we're giving up the search for..."

"No, this time something's seriously wrong," Willow interrupted him. "There's a completely different type of energy coming from a certain spot, not far from the actual opening. We didn't find out about it 'til today, but apparently it's been there for a while."

"Define 'while'."

"Couple of weeks, or so."

Angel leaned forward, his thoughts racing.

"So we're supposed to do what about this?"

"Well, first of all, we have to define it," Giles said.

"Define it?"

"Stop sounding so skeptical. It's not like we don't want to find Buffy anymore, but if this thing is a threat, we have to deal with it first. Right?" Willow asked.

"Fine. You do that. I'll go look for her. I'm sick of not doing anything, anyway," he stated, rising to his feet.

"Angel," Giles stopped him. "We could really use your help in this matter. As well as the contacts you have that we have no way of using, should you decide to leave. We need to move quickly on this since, I fear, too much time has already been wasted."

"_Wasted_?"

"Angel," Willow said, rising to face him. "Please. This isn't easy for any of us. But we don't have a choice."

He looked at her, feeling defeat like soot that slowly colored his mind into a black haze. Buffy was in there somewhere, like a memory that was fading around the corners. He couldn't let it.

But he took in the faces surrounding him and knew that neither could they. They wouldn't have considered this option unless it was absolutely vital. He met Willow's gaze and gave a small nod. He would stay.

**x**

The living room was dark blue in the light from the moon. It filtered cautiously through the windows, as if wanting to avoid the bodies on the floor; perhaps to spare her from having to acknowledge them. However, their outlines were stark contrasts against the white floor boards, so the lacking light did her no good.

Spike had lifted her off the bed and carried her down here. He had put her on a chair, barely tying her wrists. He must have known that something was broken inside her now. She had no strength left to drive her out of the house.

She looked at the red soaking the carpet beneath her feet. She could practically taste it. It would be so easy. She looked at the young woman. One of her arms was tossed carelessly around the man's waist. They seemed to be sleeping. For a second she wanted to wake them up. Then it passed and for the first time since she had left Sunnydale, she felt tears rise. They wet her cheeks: a reminiscent of her former humanity. She wasn't comforted by them, but left them. She was tired.

"Why didn't you kill me?" she asked, the well stilling at his presence, leaving their trails to dry.

She didn't have to turn her head to know he was there. She had begun to be able to tell exactly where he was in the house. Her senses were sharpening as though being chiseled into shape by the edge of a knife, slowly nearing the form they were supposed to have. Forever.

He sat down before her, on the edge of the sofa, his gaze meeting hers.

"I don't know," he replied to her question.

"Yes, you do," she disagreed.

He observed her for a moment.

"Wasn't like I planned it," he said.

"Didn't say you did." She paused, taking in his face. In this light he looked younger; his pallor highlighted with shadows that felt familiar; as though they had climbed his skin more than once. She wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers over it. "Does the emptiness ever go away?"

His brow knitted. It was a very slight movement, but she saw it.

"No," he murmured. "Lick your lips," he added.

"No," she replied.

"It's not even a mouthful."

She glanced at the corpses, and couldn't meet his gaze again.

"They were alive, you know," she finally said silently. "They probably bought this house thinking they would live here together 'til they were old. Raise a family, maybe. Bet you they closed the deal all giddy and happy, celebrating. Celebrating their life together."

She looked at him then. His eyes were pieces of blue pebble, harsh in the cold light.

"With everything you do you prove me right in hating you," she added, feeling her insides tighten with the words.

She couldn't tell why.

He smiled then, softly.

"You don't hate me," he said, voice low as he moved forward.

She stared at his face as it drew close.

And then his mouth closed around her upper lip, his tongue sliding over it before he moved his mouth to her lower lip as well. He suckled it for one drawn out moment and then he pulled away slightly. He looked dazed as their eyes met. He looked the way she felt.

More.

She moved her head to catch his lips with hers, but he straightened up. Quickly. Then he left, up the stairs. She licked her lips for the unexpected taste of him - sweet and bitter at the same time - oblivious of the trace of blood that came with it. She felt incredulity like string around her heart, slowly looping around and around, demanding answers before it blocked out everything else. And the longing sweeping through her had bristles that cut and tore. They kept right on doing their damage until she felt the hairs on her neck stand up.

Dawn was approaching.

**x**

Spike stared at the drawn curtains. Drusilla was sleeping next to him. She never stirred in her dreams. Though most vampires didn't have them, he knew she did. He did too, sometimes. But he could never remember of what. He was only left with a hollow feeling, as though something had been lost to him and he would never get it back.

He had wanted to enjoy himself tonight. To live this house as though it was his; but it was an ill fit, he had to conclude. He wasn't wood and brick off a beach; he was stone, he was somewhere on a mountainside, he was as untamed as the forest surrounding him.

He turned his head to Dru, looking at her prettiness. It's ethereal, unchanging loveliness; like a flawless painting. He wondered if he should feel bored by her perfection; by how it had been his constant companion for over a century; by how little it surprised him anymore when she changed and became the fierceness he knew rested just beneath the smooth, cool skin.

He frowned at the thought, the jolt of betrayal having him slip out of bed.

It was a long time since he'd had trouble falling asleep.

The sun was stretching across the skies, racing to bring a new day. He could feel it. Not long until it sketched gold and warmth into the blackness, taking away the reminder of how small they truly were.

Buffy. Her name had been flickering in his head like a broken light-bulb ever since he came back to bed. Actually, it had been flickering in his head a bit longer than that, and no amount of tapping could still its persistence. It wouldn't allow him to ignore it.

He got as far as the door before he stopped himself. He would have to stake her if he didn't leave her where she was. Better to leave her. He had tried to pick up that weapon and failed too many times now to think it was coincidence.

Why had he kissed her?

His eyes sought Dru again, resting on her as so many times before, but now he felt guilt stir. Wide and bold it took up space within him until he wasn't sure what had birthed it. That kiss, or the bite itself.

"It wasn't really a kiss, anyway," he muttered to himself.

Five more minutes.

He drew a breath. His hands clenched. And then the door was open, and he was through it, and downstairs. She didn't look surprised, or relieved, or grateful, or happy. She looked nonplussed as he tore her bonds off her wrists and pulled her into his arms. The sky outside the windows was lightening, calm and controlled. He was neither, moving up the stairs again, into the room she had previously occupied, kicking the door shut and practically throwing her on the bed before closing the heavy curtains, his hands holding onto them tightly as he kept his back to her.

He could sense how weak she was. She hadn't eaten in two days.

He felt himself hesitate, and this spurred him into action. He stalked out the door, shutting it with a bang behind him, leaving his childe with a look of wonder on her face. He felt unsteady as he headed back to Dru. Everything about him, inside him, felt like it was part of a revolution, fighting for a cause he couldn't discern. Something was crawling inside his skin, an itchy premonition he couldn't shake no matter what he tried.

Something wicked was on its way.


	6. Feeling

**Chapter Six: Feeling**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

"Bloody hell, Slayer!"

Buffy watched the vampire rub the back of his head furiously. He was sitting on the grass in between two tombstones, the stake he had been carrying lying somewhere not too far off. It had flown out of his grip.

"It was an _accident_," she demurred. "Get over it."

"See, I would, only it bleeding well _hurts_," he barked, getting to his feet.

She smirked now.

"Well, if you hadn't been in the way..."

"_In_ the _way_?"

"And I'm officially deaf."

"You were fighting your guy over there," he pointed. "I was fighting mine right here - the whole time - and I was 'in your way'?"

"Only when it came time for the slayage. But don't worry. I really didn't mind."

She tucked her stake at the small of her back, turning from him and beginning to walk away before that expression he wore made his face spontaneously combust and his ashes ruined her new coat. She smiled as he huffed his indignation behind her. She heard him scramble around, looking for his dropped weapon.

"Fine!" he called after her. "Maybe next time I won't come with you."

"Yeah, you will."

"No, I sodding won't."

"Good fight, though," she said without looking back.

"Wasn't good for me, pet! Think you're slipping!"

She smirked again. But then, maybe he was right.

**x**

"Okay," Giles said, out of breath. "Let's take a break."

Buffy stepped back, grabbing her water bottle and leaning against the wall of the sparring room. The Magic Box was quiet at this time of day, and the stillness among the books in the shop always felt contemplative. She enjoyed it.

"I thought you had your hands full this summer. How come you're so out of shape?" she asked. Giles merely gave her a look. "Sorry," she said, putting the bottle down. "You know, Spike would make an excellent punching bag. I know for a fact that you agree with me. Maybe he could help out with the sparring?"

"Help?"

"Well, I'd probably have to pay him."

"Probably?"

She eyed him.

"What?" she then inquired.

"What?"

"Well, you're clearly not too keen on the idea. And I wasn't even serious," she said, walking over to the love-seat and sinking onto it with a sigh.

Giles came over. She could tell that he had something on his mind by the way he couldn't quite focus his gaze in hers.

"Spike seems to be around a lot lately," he finally said.

"I hadn't really noticed," she replied detachedly.

He sat down next to her, his gaze first settling on his hands before he looked up at her. He seemed worried.

"Buffy, you would tell me if everything wasn't... If you were not... If you were in pain."

She rested her eyes in his. Then she smiled softly.

"Of course I would," she lied.

The words unfolded like the petals of a flower; carefully, beautifully, splendidly in their subdued purple tones. She decided to have them color the air, if so only for a little while longer. She knew he would enjoy them better than he would handle the truth.

He returned her smile, patting her hand before rising.

"Round two?" she asked, getting to her feet as well.

**x**

She wondered why she found herself feeling so at home in the darkness of night. As soon as the sun went down, she began to relax. Was it because she knew that those she loved best would be out of sight, consequently out of mind, and that the mask could come off? Or was it what she had felt ever since she came back – that a large part of her had been left behind? That the side to her that had always fought the fight not only for the sake of fighting it, but for feeling the need to, the want to, had stayed where it could rest and had left the other side to her, the one comfortable with the hunt and the shadows it brought with it, to fend for itself? Was this why she sought out an enemy for company? Because he was an enemy still, wasn't he? The vampire.

"Lost in thought?"

Think of the devil.

She stopped and turned around, her fingers absentmindedly scratching the left side of her throat as she met his gaze. She smiled slightly.

"Could say that," she replied to his query. "How's the head?"

He glared at her and she smiled a little.

"Going to Giles'?" she asked instead.

"Vamp signal up and running. One is summoned, one is bound to come."

"Not really bound," she remarked as they began to walk.

"Chained?" he offered.

She smirked.

"I had a dream about you the other night, did I tell you?" she asked.

His eyebrows rose.

"Really? And no, you didn't."

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I've seen you naked. It wasn't that sort of dream."

He smiled widely and she shook her head at him, not able to kill off her own mirth, though, and so she simply added:

"It was not of the good."

He grew serious, eyeing her closely. She felt her smile slip like an ornament to the ground, shattering there. His gaze unsettled her, if so only for a moment; the dream coming back in its fragmented state.

His eyes clouding over with yellow, his fangs sharp against her neck. Her fingers went to the spot they had scratched before, sliding over it as she grew thoughtful.

"Buffy?" Spike said.

"I had another one last night," she mumbled. "But it's like I'm removed from the scenario. I'm me, only not. And when I look at you..."

She trailed off, finally turning her eyes in his. And there he was.

"You're different," she finished her former statement.

He furrowed his brow wonderingly, but that was all the explanation she could give him. She wasn't even sure why she had told him about it at all.

"Willow!" she called out when she saw her friend walking across the small courtyard of Giles' apartment complex. "Hi, Tara," she added, Tara smiling her hello.

"Hi," Willow greeted. "Hey, Spike."

"Hey," he gave a nod.

They all stood still for a second, suddenly unsure of what to do next, which was ridiculous. They all came to that conclusion at the same time and headed for the door.

"I'll get it," Spike said.

"No, no, that's alright," Willow assured, pushing the door open.

Buffy's gaze caught Spike's as she walked past him inside. She smiled quickly, heading into the welcoming familiarity of the gang.

**x**

"You said something about a president," Buffy commented as they had all chosen a seat.

Giles smiled a small smile.

"No, I said that these occurring events are unprecedented – which they are. There are no answers to be had because this has never once happened before."

"Everything's happened once," Anya disagreed. "I'm sure it's in there somewhere."

"No, it isn't," Giles stated.

"Okay," Buffy said slowly. "So, we'll have to make it up as we go along. No biggie. We've done it before. Where do we start?"

"I believe we should do a spell that can point us in the right direction. Preferably a recognition spell of some kind."

"Sounds like a good idea," Willow agreed.

"I mean, I will do it," Giles said.

Willow observed him for a moment, irritation lining her features, making her skin turn a soft shade of pink before she got to her feet.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked.

Giles put his coffee cup down and followed her.

Buffy watched them leave the room in favor of the guest bedroom, closing the door behind them. Her eyes were in Spike's before she knew it, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. She sighed, giving a slight nod.

"Tell Giles to do the spell," she said, rising to her feet.

"We just got here, Buff," Xander said in return, watching her grab her coat.

"Yeah," she muttered. "And already there's the sudden urge for a brisk walk."

"Buffy," Xander tried, but she ignored him, looking at Spike.

"You coming?" she asked.

He immediately rose, following her outside.

**x**

When she had said "brisk", she'd meant it. He had trouble keeping up.

"Did you say walk or run?" he asked and she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Can we just not talk?" she said, starting up again, though slower, and he gratefully joined at her side.

"Slayer."

"The concept is that your lips don't move and you give your tongue a rest, and preferably your throat. No singing, no humming. Just... quiet."

He glanced at her, doing as the lady ordered, but feeling the need to speak like a worm, wriggling and tickling, until he had to ask:

"Is something wrong?" She gave him a look and he smirked. "I mean, besides," he waved at an undefined spot behind them, "all that," he finished.

"I don't know," she replied, slowing her step even further until she halted once more. "It's just a feeling."

They stood where they had a few nights ago: before the grounds in which the Hellmouth resided, as hidden and anonymous as any other desolate spot of the Earth. Spike felt it. Like tar painstakingly making its way down his back, trailing blackness against his clean skin. And another force. He blinked.

"Whoa," he said silently.

"What?" Buffy asked.

He hesitated; then replied:

"It's grown."

"What has?"

"Whatever it is."

She narrowed her eyes before taking a step forward. His hand grabbed her arm.

"Wouldn't do that."

"Good thing you're not the one doing it, then," she said, shaking his hold off and walking forward. "I could feel it when I was close to it," she added, but by the way she practically mumbled the words he took it that she was mostly talking to herself. "If I could just..."

"A little to the right," he said. "Little to the left. Straight ahead." He watched her back as it grew smaller. "Bloody hell, I must be crazy," he grumbled, and then he was walking in her footsteps, approaching her as she stopped, her eyes on the ground before her feet.

The heat that suddenly surrounded him was like the electricity he could feel in the air right before a thunderstorm, only confined to this one area and one thousand times more powerful.

"Can you feel it now? Happy? You done? Good, off we go," he said, his hands on her shoulders as he tried to make her turn around.

She seemed to have rooted herself to the spot, and wouldn't budge.

"Spike, look," she encouraged, reaching a hand out before her. "It's so pretty."

And just like that, the heat disappeared, and they weren't outside anymore. They were inside a building. One they knew well. They had had their very first fight in its halls. It looked just the same. They were in the library of Sunnydale high.


	7. Scratch

Hello, dear readers!

I wanted to say a huge thanks again to Brunettepet, kryan and nichbuket for reviewing so faithfully. You guys are wonderful. These two chapters are for you guys!

Love,

the author.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Seven: Scratch**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

The room looked as though it hadn't been exploded upon at all. It was just as it always had been. She drew a breath of those old scents: books, and furniture polish, and newly waxed floors. And the table was there. The table where they always did their research.

"Oh," she said softly, walking up to it, letting her fingers touch it gingerly before she sprawled herself, bent at the hips, across it, her fingers grasping its edges in an awkward hug, her cheek against its cool surface. "Hello, old friend."

"Well, I'm glad somebody's amused," Spike's voice rang behind her.

She straightened up, turned around, and slid her butt to sit on the table, crossing her legs as she fastened her gaze in the vampire's.

"Who's amused?" she asked, noticing the growing impatience on him. She silenced him as he was about to open his mouth, saying: "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Fine?" he asked. "For some reason the Hellmouth has seen fit to bloody spit this building back into existence."

"At least it didn't spit it on top of us," she remarked. Her eyes widened. "Look!" she exclaimed with the next breath, jumping off the table and running up to the counter, grabbing the thick volume lying on top of it. "The Slayer heritage hoopla yada," she added, weighing it in her hands. "Many a night have I wished it would go mold-happy. Never thought it'd be this nice to see it again."

"We don't know what all this has brought with it," Spike stated. "Might be something vile, you know. Like a retrace of all the battles you've fought. Could be the Mayor. Could be the sodding Master! _Buffy_. Are you listening to me?"

"I think I left that beaded necklace somewhere here."

"_Slayer_," he exclaimed and she pulled back from where she was leaning over the counter, turning questioning eyes on him.

"Oh, relax," she said. He didn't, though, and his tightening jaw line was beginning to get to her. "Fine," she sighed. "Let's go."

It wasn't that she wasn't shook up. She was shaken up. But she didn't feel like this damage was irreparable. So, a building had cropped up in the middle of a field; might be tricky for the local officials to explain to the populace, sure – especially since said building had been methodically torn down – but all the gang had to do was figure out how to make it disappear again. Looking at their history, making a mass of brick and concrete go poof shouldn't be too much of a challenge. For now, the halls were deserted and dark. Since it was night this fact didn't exactly stun either of them.

Buffy ran one hand along a line of lockers, smiling a little to herself. She enjoyed this. Being here. It was like she remembered things she hadn't before. Little things that had threatened to stay lost forever. She felt like herself.

Outside, the air was surprisingly crisp. Buffy shuddered.

"You'd think it was December," she muttered, wrapping her arms around her.

They stopped on the curb, turning around. There it was. The whole construction. In all its former glory.

"I'd say, pretty cool," Buffy admonished. "As long as it doesn't take me back to those mini-skirts and early days of flunking exams, I'm all good with it."

"Buffy."

She smiled at his reproachful look.

"There are no tingles," she said, beginning to walk. He followed, furrowing his brow. "No baddies," she elaborated. "Nowhere near, anyway."

Which was true. No tingles whatsoever.

"Funny," he said, and she turned her eyes in his. "Thought I was one."

He observed her with that intensity that was like a shock going through her, and she had the rushing urge to look away, but forced her gaze to stay steadily in his. She was about to open her mouth and reply when a yell interrupted her.

"Buffy!" it sounded.

The Slayer and Vamp paused their step at the sight of Willow, who was holding a stake in an extremely tight grip.

"It's going to be okay," the Wicca informed.

"I was just saying..." Buffy started to agree, but Willow would have none of it.

"Step away from the vampire."

Buffy's eyebrows rose high.

"Huh?"

And then there was the sound of steps approaching at awesome speed, right before the thwack of a body against body encounter, and a further thump as the tackle was successful. Spike tumbled sideways onto the ground.

"Bloody...!"

"Be silent," his assailant instructed. "Xander!"

Buffy stared down at the vampire and the female on top of him.

"Kendra?" she said, the word thick in her mouth.

Her heart was upping its speed by one thousand beats a minute as she took in the scene.

Xander came running with a net held high, accompanied by Oz, who was sporting thick ropes in a ready to use grip. Buffy snapped her head to Willow and noticed her long hair, her clothes, her Oz, who was there, though he had left. Willow had been broken hearted. Buffy remembered all this in an instant, and the next she began to doubt it. Was she hallucinating? Had she just now had an incredibly vivid dream and come out of it in the nick of time? This seemed real, and all that other stuff, it felt fake.

"Get off!" Spike barked, the net now entangling him, making him look not a little like a squiggling fish out of water.

The sight of him struggling formed into two fingers snapping next to Buffy's ear, bringing her back into the present. She spun around and grabbed Kendra, pulling her off the vampire before she offered him a hand and helped him to his feet, the net hanging like green, soggy cobweb around him. He tore it off in annoyance, glaring at Kendra before he seemed to realize just who he was glaring at.

"Bloody hell," he murmured; his eyes in Buffy's.

She nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry to say, I have to agree," she said, looking from one to the other of the people standing around them.

Tension danced its graceful ballet in the air, swirling with every breath, every thought, every word in need of being uttered which was successfully kept back.

"Your hair got longer," Willow finally stopped it.

"So did yours," Buffy replied.

Willow touched her head self-consciously.

"No, it didn't," she disagreed.

"What d'you reckon?" Spike asked.

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest.

"Time travel? Some sort of... projection spell?"

"Projection?"

"I don't know! _You_ try it."

He glanced around.

"Did you die and come back, or is this before that?" he asked Kendra matter-of-factly, receiving a hard punch on the arm from Buffy. "Ow, bleeding balls! What the hell's the matter with you?"

"I thought you deserved it," she replied. "Is Giles here?"

"No," Xander replied.

"What happened to him?!" Buffy demanded.

"Nothing. He's at home, I think," Xander hurriedly answered, Buffy rolling her eyes at him as the jerky feeling around her heart slowly subsided.

"Sometimes," Oz murmured, shaking his head.

Xander looked wonderingly at him.

"Let's go there," Buffy said.

"I have to check something first," Kendra stopped them, taking a step forward and grabbing Buffy's wrist.

Buffy blinked, perplexed.

Kendra released her, turning her head to Willow.

"She's got a pulse," she informed, Willow's eyebrows rising.

Buffy frowned at the two of them. This was odd, even for them.

"Giles," Willow instructed, the party beginning to move, quickly dividing into two groups.

Buffy had never had her friends look at her so suspiciously. She didn't like it. Every time she glanced their way, they pretended they hadn't just glanced her way, and it was like trying to pick up a cactus without the first attempt teaching you anything of its thorns. It pricked her over and over until she felt like yelling "_What_?"

They reached Giles' apartment in unbroken silence, Willow stepping forward at the same time as Buffy, and both of them pausing. Buffy shrugged, and Willow knocked on the door. It opened within the span of fifteen seconds, but for some reason those seconds had expanded into a bubble that barely popped as the door slid open. Time was standing still as Giles stared at Buffy.

"It's not her," Willow finally stated, and he turned his eyes in hers.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"She's alive," Xander filled in as they all trotted in through the door.

All except Spike, who stood trapped in the doorway by the courtesy code of his kin.

"What is going on here?" Buffy asked.

"Well," Xander began.

"It's complicated," Willow interrupted.

"What's complicated about it?" Xander asked.

"We can't just tell her," Willow said firmly.

"Tell me what?" Buffy demanded.

"Somebody let me in?" Spike requested in the background.

"I think not," Giles muttered.

"Let him in," Buffy said to Giles, turning back to Willow and Xander. "Just tell me."

"Well, you're not you, obviously, because if you were, I doubt you'd 've come here with him in tow... At least not so openly," Xander replied.

"Oi, I resent that," Spike said.

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy said, eyes still in Xander's. "I don't follow."

"No, you always bloody lead," Spike muttered.

"Shut the hell _up_," she exclaimed, her skin feeling as though it was floating off her body in anticipation of what was to be revealed.

She had a strong notion it wasn't going to be pleasant.

**x**

He didn't see it coming; she hadn't punched him in a while. Well, not on the chin, anyway. He stumbled backwards with the blow; one hand going to the spot as ache bloomed right under his skin.

"What the...?"

"You _sired_ me?" she barked, looking like she was getting ready for another - and just as unprovoked - attack.

"Have you lost your sodding mind?" he yelled back.

"_You_ turned me into..."

She was huffing, unable to finish the sentence. He was, however, far from out of steam, and she was feeding it with her disbelief and disgust.

"I haven't _done_ anything!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, you have!"

"Oh, yes, I have? I guess I force-fed you the blood _you_ have to drink in order for _you_ to become my _childe_, then, too, yeah?" he raged.

"Well... _yeah_."

"It doesn't work like that, and you bleeding well know it, Slayer! _You_ made the decision. _I_ didn't make it for you."

She stared at him, chest heaving with indignation and realization. He liked seeing the light of it in her formerly accusing gaze. It brightened the green of them considerably. Then came defeat, and her shoulders slumped slightly.

"What is this place?" she murmured.

"I have a theory," Giles said behind them.

**x**

Ten minutes later they sat in the living room of Giles' apartment, Spike having been officially invited after quite a lot of grumbling on Giles' side and Spike commenting they could just open a window and he'd merrily listen to the conversation out in the bushes. Buffy had insisted, however much she might have questioned it herself, and had finally won as Giles muttered a "come in". Spike sat on the stairs, separate from the group, and Buffy felt her thoughts pull towards him as though he granted some form of stability in the discomfort she was feeling. This thought, however, made her all the more uncomfortable and she tried to focus on Giles as he began to speak.

"When did you get here?" he asked her.

"We... well, I... well, we - we got 'here' right before the whole fishnet incident."

Giles cocked an eyebrow.

"I thought I told you that was a rather silly idea," he remarked to Xander, who raised his shoulders. "Well, then. Do you remember where you were before?"

"Yeah. About four years from now," Buffy answered, Willow drawing a breath.

"I cut my hair?" she asked.

"It suits you," Buffy ensured.

"Also, you're..." Spike began.

"_Spike_," Buffy stopped him with a meaningful glare of impending doom should he speak another word.

He smirked, raising his hands in white-flag offering.

"We are not dealing with time, here," Giles stated. "If we were, there would quite obviously not be two sets of Buffy. Or Spike. So, we must conclude that it is a case of switching dimensions and start from there."

Buffy felt reality slow for just a moment, but it went straight to her head and made her feel dizzy. The easiness of "poof" had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.

"Dimensions?" she asked. "We're in the wrong one?" Giles gave a nod. "Right. And how do we get back?"

"That is what we have to find out," Giles replied. "But ever more importantly - why are you here?"

"The universal question," Spike commented and Buffy suppressed the smile, drawing a breath instead.

This was serious. To the point of draining the world of color.

"Okay, then," she said. "Let's go to it."

Wherever it is, she added to herself, her hand sliding over the left side of her neck, scratching the spot right above her collarbone as her gaze drifted back to Spike.


	8. Eden

**Chapter Eight: Eden**

Sire and Childe

The sun – sinking behind a horizon of upset waves – gave way for the night, and the storm it came prepared with, as if the light of the stars were less precious and could be blotted out by steely clouds without much consequence.

Buffy marveled at the sensation of the sunset. Like tendrils of melted candle wax slipping over her skin. Only, it was a pleasurable state of being, waking up to this private moment of insight that the prison of a dark room was now one of choice, and not necessity. She glanced at the closed door, knowing it wasn't locked.

She had slept, but not well. Not like that first night, rolled into a ball underneath a piece of thick tarp some rushed hiker must have left behind, certain that her body would tell her if she needed more cover, and falling into a slumber that relaxed her to the point of never wanting to wake up. She hadn't rested like that since then, as gradually there had been an increase of noise in her head: creatures stirring around her; and finding herself able to make out what species they were simply by the whoosh of a thin tail or the scratch of a bent claw.

She had slept even worse since the night she had reached the Inn.

He, however, was sleeping soundly, still in bed. She wondered if she too would grow so used to the tug of the sun going down that she could sleep through it; shrug it off, ignore it. It seemed as though it should be too intense for that, too deeply rooted, too exalted. It was both external and internal, like the hands of a ghost skimming her outline to then dip into her; her senses awakening with the touch, and soon there was hunger, like a malicious finger twirling her intestines around it before tugging ever so painfully.

She had been struggling against it, minute by minute, the increasing want to feel blood slip down her throat. Her whole body was numb with the powerful hunger pangs, but something else was there now. Something to focus on: outspoken memories of him. Of his fingers on her skin, of his lips against hers, and this flaming need that accompanied it all.

She could hear him turn over on his side. His taste was still there, even if it was faint, more like a scent lingering in her hair, teasing her nostrils as soon as she moved her head. The enduring trace of his caress sent her hand slipping down over her stomach. She wanted release. Perhaps it would get him out of her thoughts. But she paused the movement.

Questions flocked inside her head like vultures, eager to pick away at her sanity, as if there still was any to feed from. Hadn't it left her when she allowed her feet to take her even so much as a county closer to him? She chased the circling queries away with self-righteousness and reassurance, ignoring the answers she had no way of procuring, and the confusion, like a wall of water against the back of her head.

She licked her lips and sank back into the pillows, her hand relenting at the gray matter floating through her mind, moving up to rest by the side of her face.

**x**

He entered her room quietly, hoping that she would be asleep, concentrating every fiber he consisted of towards the means of keeping her that way, if it was the way she was; the last thing he wanted was to wake her; to have her look at him in that peculiar way, with curiosity kept back by the lashing of a stick held by some still functioning part of her mind, he supposed. But more than that, she seemed to have a quiet, almost waiting, need to observe him. It was unnerving.

He placed the cup he had brought with him on the nightstand, very carefully, or so he thought; but in the next moment she turned over on her back and her eyes found his immediately, wonderingly. He didn't say anything. He didn't want to open his mouth and have her shoot off hers. He just wanted to leave her to it.

Her nostrils flared and the crinkle between her eyebrows smoothed itself as she sat up, grabbing the cup and drinking the liquid it contained in deep gulps.

He watched her for longer than he should have let himself, transfixed by the way her fingers grasped the porcelain, the sound of her accepting the devastatingly low status of what he had decided to feed her, and how he felt it, the strength it lent her; if so only for a few hours. He brought himself out of his musings, and headed for the door.

She took the cup from her lips. He could feel her gaze resting on his back, scorching the spot right below the nape of his neck, sliding over one shoulder blade.

"Why would you bring me this?" she asked; thinning the thickening silence, adding unwonted energy.

He didn't know what to say.

"It's just blood," he finally murmured, thinking his voice sounded different, like the words were spoken behind glass, him being confined to the other side of it.

His actions were as much a bleeding mystery to him as it could ever be to her.

"Not human," she now remarked.

Was that perkiness in her voice?

"No, I know that," he replied impatiently, turning around to face her.

One of her fingers had just finished circling the innards of the object, coming out traced crimson with its contents. She brought it to her mouth. It slipped easily between her lips and he felt like killing something.

Her eyes had taken on a different focus, and as she put the cup back on the nightstand her gaze was steadier than he had seen it since she saw fit to add the final wall of this bemusing triangle.

"I want you to leave," he finally stated, the words rolling across his tongue like tiny rocks.

He watched the impact they had on her. How they seemed to reach her in one collective hit.

"I don't want to," she replied earnestly.

"Why do you think you have a bloody say in the matter?"

"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly.

He gnashed his teeth in annoyance.

"I open the door and you slam it in my face?" he asked, disbelieving she had actually done just that, even though he heard his own voice practically state it. "Dru's right, there's something bloody wrong with you. I'm asking you to leave, don't make me make you," he warned.

And to that, she suddenly smiled. It wasn't wide, but it showed in twinkling sparkles in her green eyes and it drove him damn near mad with anger. He felt as though he wanted to actually stake her, run the weapon through her. His fingers clenched the air in pure anticipation. Perhaps he should splinter one of the chairs up. It'd be fast, efficient, she'd be gone, all would return to normal. He looked at her, she looked back, completely unabashed, and then he grabbed her wrist, dragging her to her feet.

"You don't know anything about this," he informed her. "About me. Dru. About who we are. You wanna be a part of it? I'll show it to you."

He tore her with him out the door, down the stairs, and out into the night.

**x**

Fat raindrops splashed the world. They soaked through Buffy's hair in a matter of moments. The shirt she was wearing clung to her skin. She blinked to get the wetness out of her eyelashes. His hand gripped hers in a way most condemning, as if what he really wanted to do was tear her arm out of its socket. They traveled the wide driveway, through the open double gates, into a street lined with palm trees swaying in the strong wind.

Most of the neighborhood was dark and uninviting. She liked it that way. She didn't want to experience that strained merciless glint she could feel in the middle of her gaze whenever they passed a lit up house. She found herself counting the heat sources inside, the heartbeats, listening to thick crimson flow through thin veins. Thinking, thinking how easily she could steal it. Even the smallest scratch would bleed for her.

She let him lead her. They reached the end of the street, and she began to ask herself why she was. Why was she leaning so heavily against his good graces when he had given her no reason to believe he even harbored any? She pulled loose with one violent tug. She had Drusilla's scent in her nostrils, taken aback by how strong it was, even in the downpour, but she was looking at him. He held her gaze, and she knew he was determined to rattle her convictions. Make her turn and run away. She wanted to, in that moment, for the first time. But it slowly subsided, like the glow on a burnt out match, and turned into smoke which evaporated without leaving a sign of its existence behind.

Drusilla moved to Spike's side. She could have been a viper, the way she seemed to slither, the way she observed the other vampiress, as though ready to strike at any given moment. Buffy could sense how much the older killer longed for her death. It was the red in her lips and the dark in her eyes now. As though it had become an obsession.

"Dance with me," Drusilla whispered in Spike's ear, leaving him as she began to walk towards a two-story building.

Buffy noticed the thumping of a baseline. Music. A club. A sign swung helplessly in the rough gale, seemingly moments away from flickering into oblivion. It read "Eden". Spike looked at her as he began to move the way Drusilla had gone. Then he left her standing, turning fully around. Buffy saw Drusilla enter, and not long after Spike followed. She was already walking in their footsteps. Partly anxious, partly fascinated.

She stepped into a badly lit hallway. There was no one in the booth, but she scented fresh blood. She felt her insides churn with both hunger and complete disgust. It was confusing, and made her feel sick. She continued through a narrow corridor, its walls painted dark green and being bare except for two small lamps, one of which were broken. A newspaper lay discarded in the corner, which turned sharply to the left, the passage ending abruptly at a heavy, black painted, metal door.

The music was vibrating through the walls and under her feet. She pushed the blockage open and entered the converted warehouse which now hosted a mix of dancing cognitos. Most of them were dressed in black with eye-piercing neon in either wigs on their heads, or accessories dangling from ears and around wrists. They were of every age, every color, every body type, but had one thing in common: they were all completely absorbed in the steady beat.

She looked around and soon enough spotted those whom her eyes were seeking. They were just joining at the dance floor. Drusilla raising her arms as his hands slid up them, their fingers entwining and their mouths itching for kisses, but they merely began to move, almost excruciatingly slow, to the rhythm. Buffy stared at them, practically feeling herself in his arms.

They were hunting. She saw their eyes search the crowd. She knew this was an ideal setting for a kill. Noisy, too much commotion for anything to raise any alarm, really; and the people open for new experiences, there to have a good time, eager to be seduced. All too simple.

Join them, something urged.

But something else was stronger, and she let the impulse fade.

"Hey!" a voice yelled in her ear.

It reverberated inside her head as though the room had gone utterly silent and the young guy next to her had seen fit to ruin it by using his vocal cords. Loudly.

"You're wet!" he added, not getting any quieter, and she put a hand up by her ear, smiling slightly. "Sorry!" he apologized.

"It's raining!" she yelled back. "I just got here."

"Oh, yeah, man, total devastation outside! Awesome! You want a drink?"

She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes from drifting to the hem of his sweater at the provoking word.

"No, thanks!"

"Sure? I was just gonna go get one!"

"I'm sure! Thanks, though."

He smiled, made a corny dance move before shuffling off toward the bar. It ran the length of the far wall and held three cute bartenders captive. She barely glanced at them. She sought Drusilla and Spike, found them, and looked away, at her hands, at anything else.

"Sure you don't want anything?"

The guy again.

"Look," she began, trailing off, unsure of how to make him go away; or if she wanted him too: he was a welcomed distraction.

"Wanna dance?" he asked.

"You mean 'jump'?" she asked back and he grinned widely, putting his newly purchased beer down and grabbing her hand.

She smiled a little.

She hadn't been out for such a long time. Perhaps she should allow herself this part of her death – the life that so obviously came with it. It felt exhilarating to actually move her body, to listen to the melody repeating from the speakers until it seemed to hold a message separate and meant only for her. She listened, and soon she was lost. A part of the crowd. The past few weeks forgotten, the questionable future forgotten, and all that existed was this moment, the cement beneath her shoes, the roof high above her head, and the people accepting her into their sweaty mass.

**x**

"I'm starving," Drusilla mumbled in his ear and he smiled at the familiar look in her eyes; she had already spotted something to her taste.

He let her go, heading for the bar. The cold beer slipped down his throat like dew on a moon-chilled lawn and he closed his eyes. It was perfection. He was about to go into a musing over the fact of alcohol being invented by monks, as was his custom, and all the lovely irony that came with it, when his gaze caught on the shape of Buffy, moving, grinding her way through the song playing. He swallowed, putting the beer down distractedly before stepping away from the bar and slowly beginning to circle the dance floor.

He remembered the first time he had ever seen her. He remembered the life that had emanated from her, like an aura that reached out to touch everything around her, and surround it with this strange, strong glow. He had wanted to snuff it, suffocate it, so that it couldn't dance anymore. Cut the wick, break the candle, toss it aside. No more brightness, no more disturbing light. And still, there it was. Still. Blinding and steady.

Her eyes met his then, and he felt that look of hers reach right down into him and start stirring things around. He broke from it, and headed for the exit.

"Bugger this," he grumbled, stepping into the storm, which was still set on abominably beating up nature.

The wind pulled at his duster, but he ignored it, walking in long strides, back to the beach house. He thought fleetingly of Drusilla, but knew she didn't need him. She didn't need him to keep her safe. She would follow when she saw that he had left. She'd guess the reason, he was certain. To get away from that bloody infuriating sodding blond little goddamn snipperty-tippet. He nearly kicked the door down as he entered the house. He couldn't calm down so he merely paced around the living room, dripping rainwater all over the now un-carpeted floor. He had thrown it out, thinking the stains too much of a give-away in case someone came snooping, knowing that it bloody well didn't matter, and getting rid of it all the same.

"Spike," Buffy said behind him and he stopped dead in his tracks, twirling around to face this menace, come to wreck everything he had spent two lifetimes building.

"What do you _want_?" he exclaimed. She stared at him. "Get out," he said.

She shook her head.

He was by her in a second, pushing her in front of him towards the door. She turned around and pushed him even harder back, making him have to find his balance, and realize just how much of her inherited strength had seeped into her muscles. He clenched his hands into fists at her obstinacy.

She knew there were drops of water sliding over her skin, down along her spine, dripping from her hair. She knew she was a mess, but she didn't feel like it. She felt like an arrow, and he was the one who had aimed her, with that expression in his eyes. Practicality had left her long ago, had left her the moment his fangs claimed her flesh, and she saw clearly that fighting this was pointless. Though he clearly was. Fighting it.

"Where's Drusilla," she inquired, gaze not leaving his form as he had taken up his pacing again.

"What the sod is it to you?"

"Why did you look at me like that?" she asked silently, sure that she heard her own pulse banging against her eardrums, knowing it was nothing but an afterthought.

He glared at her. He wanted to kill her, she was sure.

"Like what?" he finally retorted.

The sharp flash of lightening filled the room, and soon thunder boomed above their heads.

"Like you don't want me to go anywhere," she replied.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but the words wouldn't fall from his mouth; wouldn't even climb up his throat.

She waited. Nothing. Then he got himself moving, walking around the couch, away from her, up the stairs, out of sight. She wanted to follow, but decided against it, sinking down on the couch with a sigh.

She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.


	9. Parting

**Chapter Nine: Parting**

Sire and Childe

He opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? He must have. Dru was in the room. Like a bit of ice wafting her chill through the shadows. Why hadn't she woken him? He remembered then, that he had left her behind. Again he felt the coal of guilt scratching itself against his ribs. He had made a mistake in rationalizing himself into thinking she would understand. She had been drifting somewhere in the outer peripheral for nights now and he was no fool, he didn't think she hadn't noticed it.

She was sitting by the window, moonlight illuminating her as though she was the only thing in the world for it to fall on. She turned her head to him. He had the funniest sense of watching her from afar. As if she was removed from him, like a piece of art, seated on a chair for all to see, gawk at, interpret.

"Hungry?" she asked. He didn't answer. He couldn't bring himself to. She rose. "I'm going," she added, the hint of a question behind the words.

He wanted to come with her, but then came the sincere wish to stay right where he was, and so he didn't move. He was about to speak, but missed his cue, saw the moment drift by as she walked out of the room in a quiet he disliked more than if she had slammed the door behind her.

He didn't go after her. The bed beneath him supported his weight in such a kind manner he thought it might be rude to get up. He smiled at the thought, but it soon enough died away as he looked up at the ceiling. Fleetingly he thought of that bed being slept in by two warm bodies that felt at home in it, protected in the knowledge of having each other. Now the bodies were cold, lying behind some tall grass below the deck. Dead.

He pushed the thoughts away and sat up.

Buffy stood leaned against the door frame. Hesitant, reluctant even. As though she didn't want to disturb him, but hadn't had a choice.

"Hey," she finally said.

He wished he could laugh at her, but found the expression of the strangeness inside of him lost and furthermore lodged in the back of his mouth as he observed her.

"Hey," was all he could think of as a retort.

"Can I...?"

"No," he replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, taking his eyes off her. "Close the door," he instructed.

She did as he asked and it clicked shut in quiet defiance. He had a feeling she would stay right outside it, until he came out. And he wouldn't. She didn't exist from now on. He'd drive her away. He would.

**x**

The door was painted white; the strokes had been applied running up and down, up and down. Methodically they had covered the wood underneath. She wondered what type of tree had given its life for this flat form of shutting somebody out, keeping somebody in. Had it been a strong tree? Had it been growing for hundreds of years before someone came and decided it wasn't allowed to get any bigger? Humanity's outmost flaw was its tolerance of misconduct. Everybody shaking their heads saying "What a shame" and "Isn't it terrible" and "Oh, did you hear", and doing nothing. Nothing. Because what can little ole I do? I'm so small in the world. The pathetic attempts at reprimanding those that did ill deeds, instead of seeking out the root of it. The warped politics of right and wrong which were applied even to those that didn't deserve it. Corruption, greed, selfishness. What had she really been fighting for, these years? What had she sacrificed herself for? They were all just kettle bound for the altar, anyway. All simply trees that were waiting to be cut down, anticipating the axe as it dug through bark, longing for the thud as they fell to the ground. Because then it was over. No more pretences – you would know if you were to be judged or to pass judgment.

She snapped out of it, straightening herself up.

"They're not kettle," she grumbled.

She turned from the door and walked downstairs.

He thought he could crown himself king of all that was stubborn, but he had no idea who she was. Buffy Summers. Queen of the Pigheaded. She wrinkled her nose at the literal interpretation which skipped into her mind. Queen of the Persistent. That was better.

She stepped onto the deck.

Death.

It surrounded her with such an overwhelming scent that she nearly gagged. She jumped over the railing, landing in soft sand and running across it, letting her feet spray it up behind her until the foul smell wasn't anywhere near her. And then she fell in a heap in a sand dune, staring up at the cloudy sky. It had stopped raining. The sand beneath her was wet and cold and she relished in the feel of it.

Things seemed sharper in their touch, and yet they were somehow different, as though the sharpness changed them into their true form, and how she had perceived them before had been false. She sifted sand between her fingers and closed her eyes.

Why couldn't she leave him?

The question kept entering one side of her mind and leaving the other, like it was set on a loop that eclipsed ever so often, to then be lit up as bright as before. She knew why, but her fingers sifted the reason away, grabbing another fistful of sand and letting its therapy try to heal what couldn't be healed.

A sound made her open her eyes. The repeating of it made her sit up and soon she was on her feet, running back the way she had left. She needed a weapon, any kind of weapon. She would kill the vampiress sooner than she would let her harm that little girl.

**x**

The sound of a child laughing brought Spike to the window of the bedroom. He felt himself frowning at the sight which met him, and then he was downstairs, tearing open the front door and stepping outside with a purpose which wasn't clear to him until he spoke.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

He was taken aback at the force in his voice. So was Drusilla, who met his gaze quizzically, almost confusedly.

"It's a girl," she replied, one hand tenderly slipping through long, blonde locks. "Her name is Sophy. Isn't it, buttercup?"

The girl nodded shyly, then smiled up at Dru, who took her hand in hers.

"She's come to play," Dru added.

"Isn't it a bit late for playing?" Spike gritted out.

"Sophy wants to, don't you, dearie?"

The child nodded again.

"Well, I'm bloody well not in the mood for games, so take her back."

Drusilla stared at him now. There were boundaries in her gaze; ones that should never be crossed.

"I think not," she replied.

Spike put on a strained smile, ignoring her looks and kneeling down before the girl.

"You like this lady?" he asked.

"Yes," Sophy answered quietly, glancing up at Drusilla, who smiled encouragingly.

"What about me?" he inquired, vamping out at the last word and snapping his fangs together in front of the child's face.

It produced a sharp squeal of fright and she tore her hand out of Dru's in order to turn around and run back across the driveway, out through the gates, sobbing loudly.

Spike straightened himself up, shaking his demon off his face and meeting Dru's eyes.

Their expression wasn't what he had expected. It was traced with regret, and sadness.

"You're truly lost to me," she said, backing away from him.

He furrowed his brow.

"Dru?" he tried, but she shook her head.

"She's there. All around you. I can see her. You can't even hear me anymore."

"Dru?" he repeated, truly puzzled as to what she was saying.

"I couldn't believe it. Didn't want to. Even when the stars whispered it to me." She was mumbling, more to herself than to him, her eyes sometimes focusing on him to then drift away again. Like when she was sick. He wanted to reach out to her, but something stayed his hand. She continued in a low voice: "Didn't want to believe that you would turn away from me. Had already turned. You weren't supposed to meet her. No, that's wrong... You were. I just wasn't supposed to be with you. No. I wasn't. I'm not."

He took a step forward, but she was out of sight before he could blink. He stared at the spot she had occupied. The realization was slow. That she was gone. That she had left him.

**x**

Buffy had been halted, on her set course through the house toward the front door, by Spike's tone as he addressed the other outside. She had sneaked up to a window and listened, her eyes widening with every word.

"What is he doing?" she had whispered to herself as he knelt before the child, and when the answer came in the girl turning and fleeing, she had been so completely flabbergasted that she had drawn a breath.

She watched Drusilla's retreat with her heart quivering in her breast. Victory, it spelled, in beautiful crimson letters. Victory.

He turned and came back in through the door and she took a step forward, smiling tryingly, just a little, her eyes seeking his. He stopped, took her in, and then headed upstairs with a low growl.

She understood he hadn't done it because of her. That she shouldn't think it had anything to do with her. She closed the front door slowly, her thoughts very quietly asking her why he had done it, then.

**x**

Buffy. Buffy. Buffy.

Everywhere.

He clawed at his head, sinking down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, feeling murderous, feeling his demon screaming at him in two voices and then there was something soothing, something moving to a lost rhythm coming from forgotten memories, and then she was there again, and her eyes and her mouth speaking words she had never uttered but that some twisted part of him wanted for his own.

He turned the bed over, kicked a lamp to pieces, began to pace.

It wasn't right.

None of this was right.

Drusilla.

Buffy.

Buffy.

Buffy.

**x**

It started raining again, and she leaned against one of the large windows, breathing simply for the distraction of watching it cause mist on the window pane. It slowly faded before an identical semi-circle formed once more. On and on it went. She couldn't tell for how long. But then the door he had shut behind him upstairs opened, and she heard his feet on the steps. She turned to face him as he came into the room. He looked furious.

"What the hell are you expecting from me?"

"Acknowledgment, for starters," she replied.

He seemingly wanted to strangle her. Lot of good that would do him. She felt eerily calm, and wondered if it was going to be blown apart by one of his well-chosen remarks. He was so good at aiming them.

"Here," he said, stepping up to her, grabbing her by the shoulders, looking her in the eyes. "Acknowledged enough?"

"I don't get it _either_," she exclaimed, the calm apprehensively giving way for the storm, shaking his hands off and walking around him. "Why do I remember everything so well and still I don't want it? I don't _want_ it anymore."

"You don't mean that."

"How the hell do you know what I mean? I don't even... I've bled for you, damn it! And it didn't make me run, did it? Isn't this what's supposed to happen? Isn't this what Drusilla meant?"

"Don't you bloody well say her name."

"I can say it as much as I want - she's not _here_ anymore."

He took a step forward, his hands clenching.

"Go back to your little click, Slayer, it's where you belong."

The sentence felt more brutal than she could have thought. She bit the tears to shreds and swallowed them down, not caring what had caused them, his constant rejection, or her incapability of taking his advice. But she would not show weakness, not in her little finger, not on her face.

"They can't trust me," she said. "They're right not to."

"Can't trust you, who's barely sodding glanced at a corpse, let alone helped produce one?" He smirked, shaking his head at her. "Go back, Slayer. They'll help you figure it out. 'S what they do."

"Don't call me that," she grumbled.

"What? Slayer?"

She disliked the irony in his voice.

"I don't want it anymore," she repeated, knowing that he didn't want to listen.

"What _do_ you want?" he suddenly inquired, observing her in the mounting silence before he shook himself out of it. "Doesn't matter," he stated.

"Doesn't it?" she asked, managing to catch his eyes again.

There was something in them in that moment, other than the blue, something slight and yet tangible. It made her take a step forward.

"Don't," he stopped her.

He held her gaze for a long moment, convincing her to leave it. Almost. Then he sidestepped her and headed for the stairs.

"That didn't resolve anything," she commented and he swirled back around.

"Bloody hell, I don't want it _resolved_. I want it finished."

"Then you should've let Dru kill me when you had the chance!"

"I'll get the stake and do it _myself_."

"Go on!" she yelled, her gaze carrying the dare the words proclaimed.

He stared at her and everything stilled. She couldn't read him, she realized. She didn't know what he was thinking, or feeling. If he even felt anything.

"She's gone," he finally said slowly. "She's gone, and all I can bloody think about..."

She came to rest, at last, set at ease, not needing to hear another word. What she had seen before in his gaze now moved through it and took it over.

He was close to her in a breath, one which she sucked in through parted lips as he pulled her near him. His mouth was hers to accept in another second, and her eyes closed at the depth of his kiss, the scalding sensation which swept through her veins; and all that came with it.

She grabbed at the duster, she clung to him, blinded by the thorn and ivy that was taking her over again, a wilderness of obscurity where flashes of sensation were all that broke through, all she could interpret, beams of light falling, tumbling, smashing through the thicket.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't quick. It was drawn out and anything but tender. It wasn't love, it was passion. And she loved it. Every last sensation. It was nothing like she had imagined. It was more. Volatile, consuming, excess of emotion as he took her again and again and the pleasure ran through her, pooled, cascaded, poured, as though it had found a life of its own and was willing to make her its residence, preside over her insides, eternally. She would be its slave, but willingly, gratefully, kneeling before it. To be without it, she thought, without this, as his mouth stroked her skin: that would be true death.

Her hands in his hair, his eyes meeting hers. His lips, his tongue, and then his fangs sinking through her flesh, reclaiming the spot it had already marked as his, and everything switched into different colors as rapture turned into ecstasy.


	10. Constant

**Chapter Ten: Constant**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

Buffy sunk down on the edge of the bathtub. The rattling of chains filled her head. And his blue eyes almost black with aggravation as she reluctantly held the cup and allowed him to drink from it. How she had loathed having to have him there, having to rely on him for any little snippet of information, though he never saw fit to produce any; and the necessity of having to put Giles through the insolence of the peroxide menace. She had teased the vampire then, showing off her neck, exposing it willingly to the harmless, crippled beast.

Here, it hadn't happened. The actions and reactions were yet to be cemented. They were flapping loosely in the air. But here she was also something else entirely.

His childe.

Her hand went to the side of her throat. She drew a shaky breath, being interrupted in her thoughts as there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she said, knowing it wasn't him; the knock had been too quiet.

Willow stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"As far as okay goes," Buffy shrugged.

"I thought I'd make some tea," Willow said. "Do you like ginger?"

Buffy smiled.

"Yeah, I do."

Willow smiled as well. A real smile. Not a smile hiding questions and worries. It was truly lovely to witness.

"I'll make you a cup, then."

Same thoughtful Willow.

"Will," Buffy stopped her half-way out the door. "Thank you."

Willow gave another small smile before disappearing.

Spike met her in the doorway, taking her place, shutting the door behind him, his eyes soon resting in Buffy's. She wasn't sure she wanted him looking at her, but she couldn't bring her gaze out of his.

"You okay, Slayer?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she replied.

"Don't look it," he remarked.

She breathed out heavily, feeling her back slump.

"Yeah?" she wondered. "Wanna tell me about it?"

"Buffy," he said, voice strained, as if something was stuck between his vocal chords, "this isn't your average, daily, Sunnydalic twisting of things. I mean... Bollocks," he muttered. "I turned you and took you away from... Oh, sodding hell."

"No," she silenced him. "You were right. You didn't. And she isn't me. I just need to keep some distance from all of it, is all."

"Is all?"

"God, I hate it when you repeat things back to me."

"You think the spell did this?" he switched topics.

"I thought about that," she said. "But it'd take longer for Giles to set everything up than it took us to walk to the Hellmouth from his apartment. And besides, a recognition spell isn't powerful enough to do something like this. Not actually bring us here."

"True," he agreed.

His eyes caught hers again.

"It's funny," she said.

"What is?"

"Death is my gift," she murmured, drifting off slowly, to a desert where nothing but a fire disrupted the stillness.

She brought herself out of it, focusing on him again before she rose and walked past him, opening the door and leaving it ajar as she joined the others in the living room.

Someone was coming, and she felt she needed to see him.

**x**

Spike stood still for another few moments, pondering what had just been said. He didn't like her being cryptic, though she wasn't exactly known for her ability to spell things out, either. She was still hurting, as she had been for months now, but somehow the orange glow of it had softened around the edges. He couldn't determine if this was a good or a bad thing.

The front door opened and at the sound of an annoyingly familiar voice he got himself moving. Something ill-willed perched in the middle of his chest, writing out the desperation of any hope he might hold in cruel stanzas that had no rhyme or reason.

Angel.

Sure enough.

Of course it would be.

Spike halted, having barely stepped foot in the other room yet. Her back was to him, but it was relaxed. She was smiling, he could tell, because Angel returned it and then gave a nod, making a gesture to the door.

Spike drew a breath to say something but the air got caught in his lungs, swirling around in mild confusion as to its purpose. Buffy led the way outside, the other vampire practically tripping over her heels. The writing scratched to a stop: desperation felt superfluous in the smoky jealousy. He longed suddenly for a fag, felt for the packet, getting nothing for the effort.

He let the breath out with a huff, swirling around and heading back into the bathroom.

**x**

"Is everything different, you think?" Buffy asked as she took a seat on one of the benches in the minuscule courtyard outside Giles' apartment.

Angel smiled a little, sitting down next to her.

"You don't seem all that different," he remarked.

"It's just defenses. The shock'll come later."

He smirked.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Frustrated," he grumbled, looking away from her. "I still love her... you... her."

Buffy shook her head with a small smile.

"What a mess," she said. "Her," she added silently, offering it as a clarification to avoid any kind of confusion on the matter.

He met her gaze and held it, then nodded slowly.

"I shouldn't have let her go. I should've gone after her straight away."

"There's no point," Buffy hushed him softly. "There's no blame. Guess you could blame Spike, but sometimes he feels like such an easy target."

Angel smiled again. It faded.

"She's with him."

Buffy swallowed, her mouth drying up.

"Yeah," she murmured. "Maybe she'll come back. Spike's charms are few and far between."

"'Charms'?" Angel wondered; his quizzical expression familiar and yet so removed from any context she had ever seen it in that she found herself staring at him.

It was strange how he, who had been the closest to her, was now the one farthest away. She couldn't quite reconcile with his presence. It was like a piece of clothing on sale that she honestly wanted and knew would go well with everything, only it didn't quite fit her. She smiled then, wanting to chase away his furrowed brow and wondering gaze. He wasn't the Angel she knew, no matter how alike him he was; and he didn't deserve to be likened to anything cheap or remotely unnecessary.

"You know what I mean," she replied to his former query. "I'm just saying that whatever drove her to go with him will wear off, sooner or later. I'm sure of it."

"Go with him?" Angel said. "She didn't go with him, she went after him."

Buffy's eyebrows rose as her eyes grew round. This was a kick-in-the-stomach-loose-your-breath bit of information.

"What?" she asked.

"They didn't tell you?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot," she replied with a sarcastic roll of the eyes and he smirked. "She went after him," Buffy tasted the words. "But why? If he didn't bring her along, then why would she...?"

Angel's gaze drifted to his hands and she realized he was ashamed.

"Oh," she said, picking up on the pieces of the puzzle quickly dropping themselves before her feet. "So... maybe she won't come back," she added.

"I want her to," Angel admonished. "But I'm afraid it's mostly me being selfish. I want her to know that I'm sorry, you know?" Buffy nodded. "I doubt she'd stay for long, though. And looking at it that way it might be better if she kept away... God knows Joyce has been through enough."

Buffy stood and he looked up at her, his face concerned at the expression she wore.

"Buffy?" he said.

"I..." she tried, but didn't know what to say. "Just tell them I'll be back as soon as I can," she finally said, turning and running towards the archway leading her across a short lawn and into the street which would take her home.

**x**

Spike was drawn to the front door by the sensation of her swift departure. He stepped through it just as Angel rose to his feet.

"Where is she?" Spike demanded.

"She said she'd be back soon," Angel replied.

"Not what I asked."

They eyed each other.

"What the hell did you say to her?"

"Please. Like you weren't listening," Angel shot.

"I wasn't," Spike said, offended. "Not to all of it," he added, still as offended, and completely unable to suppress the satisfaction of knowing that at least here, in this place, Buffy had chosen him.

Then again, she probably hadn't. He remembered how he, for the first year or so after Dru had bitten him, had felt as though she was a factional part of him, her blood being his blood, her thoughts being his thoughts, and if he had been able to merge with her then, to never have to leave her, he would have. Then he looked at his grandsire and concluded that the satisfaction would not be swayed.

However, trailing behind it was remorse. For Buffy. For what he had ripped away from her.

Not you, the voice of reason reprimanded, but it wasn't as loud as he needed it and couldn't chase away the sense within him of having wronged her.

"I know you're not him," Angel murmured, as if having read his thoughts, and Spike moved his gaze back in his. "But I still have this strong urge to see you dead."

Spike smirked.

"I know the feeling," he said. "Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"What's the last thing you spoke to her about?"

"J-..." Angel's eyes widened. "Joyce," he finished, turning to go after her.

"I'll go," Spike stopped him.

"You'll go?" Angel said.

"Yeah, I'll go," Spike replied. "You've no rights with her."

"And you do?" Angel scoffed with a raising of his eyebrows that Spike took as quite the excuse to hit the other over the jaw, or at least kick him a little, though he did neither.

"You're not even in her universe anymore, mate," he remarked.

Angel looked at him closely, beginning to grow wondering. Spike cleared his throat, corrected his duster slightly and stepped past the other.

"Joyce knows," Angel said as Spike walked away. "She knows Buffy is the Slayer."

"She know she's a vampire?" Spike asked, not looking back.

"Yeah. That too," Angel confirmed as Spike disappeared out of sight.

**x**

Buffy's hand hung suspended – stopped in mid-action – by the knob of the front door of her house. The bushes lining the veranda were the same; the chip in the wood on the second step was the same; the scent of Mrs. Tripoli cooking lasagna, as she did every Tuesday, was the same. But this was not her house. This was not her mother. This was not her life.

Her hand fell to hang at her side.

A movement behind the window of the living room attracted her like a flame would the masochistic moth and she stepped near, peeking in. She drew a breath. Her mother was sitting down at the desk, looking at something in a book, making a note, completely absorbed in her work. Buffy felt tears slip down her cheeks before she even noticed them blur her sight. Her mother. The most beautiful woman ever. Alive.

"Buffy."

She turned her head to meet Spike's gaze. It was soft and in rising confusion she let it caress her pain.

"I wanted to see her, but I couldn't go in," she said unnecessarily and he smiled carefully, as though he was scared it would have the wrong effect in some way.

It didn't.

She could tell he was at a loss as to what to do. So was she.

"I want her to hold me and tell me everything'll be alright," she said, a sob breaking through the last word and he ushered her gently to the other side of the veranda, making her sit on the bench there. "I want her to make hot chocolate and bring out the special cookies and listen to me whine about stupid things like boys and nail-polish and ice-cream flavors."

"She was good at the hot chocolate," he agreed with another small smile. "Never had a special cookie, though."

"She didn't get a chance to give you one," Buffy said, and then she smiled through her tears, unsure of why. "She never handed out hot chocolate without a cookie."

"I can see that about her," he said and she observed him for a long moment.

The understanding worked its slow dawn inside of her, but finally she could make his expression out.

"You liked my mother," she said. "Didn't you?"

He couldn't quite meet her gaze, and shrugged a yes, but the inconsequential behavior only made her more certain that it was so.

"She was decent," he then replied.

"I miss her," she said, another batch of tears filling her eyes.

"I know," he said gently. "But for you to see her now would only confuse her. Harm her, even. You know that."

She nodded, drying her cheeks with unsteady hands and getting to her feet. They walked across the lawn and continued down the street in silence.

"So, Angel told me I... I mean, she, the other me, or Buffy... I guess I should call her Buffy. Might sound weird. It'll sound like I'm talking about myself in the third person. I guess I am, though, so it's okay. So, Angel told me Buffy went after you, I mean, him, the other you, I mean, Spike. Buffy went after Spike... God, this is annoying!"

He smirked, glancing at her.

"I heard," he simplified things.

She narrowed her eyes as she turned them on him.

"You mean you listened casually with your paranormal ears?"

He kept the smile to a minimum and still she shook her head at him.

"Your mum knows," he said. "About the slaying and recent biting. They told her."

"Wow," she murmured. "Did they say how she reacted?"

He shook his head. She let this sink in.

Suddenly she remember how he had been with her on the night _she_ had told _her_ mother that she was the Slayer. He had been there. This tumultuous proposition he had placed before her still tumbling around inside her head and she had barely been able to think straight because of the poignant ache she had been feeling for nearly half a year. Because of Angelus.

She glanced at him now, just as she had then, though her insides then had been trembling with solicited apprehension as to his other motives, for he had to have more than one. Now he was just him. This strange fixture in the construction that made up her everyday life. Not always visible, but constant. She felt linked to him in that moment, like he was an inevitable outcome of events, and she directed her gaze ahead.

"Part of me doesn't ever want to leave here," she said quietly.

She could feel his eyes on her.

"I know," he said.


	11. Unleashed

Dear reader,

I would again like to offer up thanks to Brunettepet and nichbuket - without you I dare say I would most probably not continue to post because the point of this exercise is, to me, to get feedback on my work, so I thank you for being there with each new chapter! I'm truly happy you both are enjoying the story and hope that the following two chapters will be to your liking, my friends!

All My Love,

Annie.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Eleven: Unleashed**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

The courtyard was empty when they re-entered it. Not a lot of conversation had taken place between them on the way back to Giles', and she wondered what he was thinking. What did he make of all this?

He had practically apologized before in the stead of this dimension's version of him, she suddenly realized, for what had been done to the other her. She felt her eyes soften with the strain of holding back a smile: she couldn't find any excuse for it. His gaze met hers, and a slight furrow placed itself on his brow; it was wondering, but she looked away and instead of opening his mouth to voice his question, he held the front door of Giles' apartment open for her. Did he often do that? She couldn't remember. She'd never really thought about it.

She didn't know why it should be so terribly amusing that he was behaving the way he was, but the corners of her mouth were tugging upwards no matter how hard she fought it as she walked into the living room, and she promptly continued into the kitchen to get away from the eyes of the others. She opened the fridge, ducking into it and performing a minute inspection of all the glories of Giles' diet.

"Mh!" she said, grabbing a few grapes and popping them in her mouth before she straightened up and turned around, drawing a breath as Spike was right behind her, consequently sucking grape juices down her throat and starting to cough.

The furrow in Spike's brow deepened.

"Everything okay?"

"_Yes_," she got out, clearing her throat and trying to breathe and chew at the same time. "Stop asking me if I'm okay."

"I didn't ask if you were okay, I asked if everything is okay."

"Do I not look okay again?" she asked, her eyes tearing from the loss of air and her face flushing for every other reason.

"Actually," he began.

"Just don't," she shook her head, finally swallowing the grapes down and straightening her back a little.

"And then there's your mum," he said gently and she rested her eyes in his, noting the concern.

"Everything's okay," she assured, her voice gentler than she had meant it to be, and as she stepped passed him her hand moved to place itself lightly on his arm in silent gratitude.

A jolt went through her as she left the kitchen for the living room. Some sort of electrical current at the recognition of what she had just done, which for some reason had taken three or so seconds to register. She sat down on the sofa, tucking the rogue hand beneath her and feeling quite positive that there it would stay for the remainder of the evening.

**x**

Spike had an imprint of her hand on the sleeve of his duster. It was as though her body heat had sunk into the leather and refused to leave it, snug and secure it would stay there, so that he could carry it with him and have it mock him with its uselessness. He got rid of the thoughts and headed into the living room, deciding against having a seat since there was a literal crowding of the precious few available, and though pushing Monkeyboy off his chair made for an entertaining image, he discarded it almost as fast as it appeared, leaning casually against the wall behind him instead.

His eyes drifted over the soft locks falling over Buffy's slender shoulders. He began to lose himself in conjuring the sensation of what they might feel like slipping through his fingers. He drew a slight breath of air and her scent filled his nostrils instantly. Her head turned a little and he had the strangest notion that she was as aware of him as he was of her.

"What do you think?" Giles' voice broke the spell, her head facing forward and the vampire being left with nothing but the wavy movement of her locks.

"Hmh?" she said in response to Giles. "Oh. Yes. I think definitively yes."

Giles blinked.

"To which?" he wondered.

"All of it," she replied, nodding.

He looked at her, uncomprehending, before he slowly removed his glasses and began polishing them. This was one of the many things Spike loathed about the Watcher – his excess need of taking a moment. Bloody hell.

"You think this disturbance we are dealing with, the subject matter of our discussion, is caused by a spell? As well as," he continued mercilessly, her nodding head slowing as he continued speaking, "an awakening evil; a plan for world domination construed by any number of possible new Big Bads; and lastly, my favorite, a 'glitch', as Xander so eloquently put it. This is what you think?"

Spike knew she was putting on her best innocent face; big eyes, slight pout, absolutely lost expression. Like the git would fall for that in a million years.

"If you have no interest in paying attention," Giles began.

"My mother died, less than a year ago," she stopped him. Efficiently. "I'm sorry if seeing her shook my concentrating skills, but I'm ready to focus, so please, no lecture and more of the discussion?" He smiled apologetically and Spike wondered if he should declare that a few minutes ago she had professed to him just how okay she was. "I think," she added, "that we can sit around guessing all night, but we're not going to find the answer to this one in a book."

"We've already put the question out on the streets," Xander said. "Nothing so far."

"These people won't come banging on your door screaming 'The sky's falling down, help us prop it up'," Buffy remarked dryly.

"We know that," Willow cut in. "But Angel's the one putting it out there, so we were thinking that, hey, he might have some street credit."

"He said he would tell us if he received information," Kendra added, sounding terribly skeptical of him doing anything of the sort.

"Well," Buffy said thoughtfully. "It's late, and I can see you guys are tired, so let's get a bit of rest and start fresh in the morning. I'll go see if Angel's heard back from anyone yet and then I'll come back here," she finished as she rose to her feet.

Giles nodded, and Xander, Willow and Oz put their coats on and said goodnight to Buffy - Willow giving her a rather awkward hug, by Spike's standards - before the three left.

Silence filled the apartment for the first time in days and it seemed unfamiliar with the task, having been stirred by voices for so many hours on end, but then it slowly settled comfortably. However, for those in the room it was oppressing.

"Would you like me to come with you?" Kendra finally asked Buffy, who smiled and shook her head slightly.

"I'll be alright. Please, get some sleep," she encouraged and the other slayer nodded, suppressing a yawn as she walked passed Spike toward the guest bedroom.

Giles rose to his feet, turning to face the Slayer and the Vamp.

"So," he said hesitantly. "Are you... two...?"

"_What_?" Buffy laughed – the word high-pitched and the laughter nervous. Spike frowned again. "No, no, we're not _two_," she continued. "We're barely one put together. Not that we are put together. Or together in any way. Except in this room."

"Bloody hell, Slayer," Spike interrupted impatiently. "Breathe before you turn blue. I'll be back in the morning. This place ain't any different. I'll find my way around."

And with that, he left.

**x**

Buffy watched the door as it closed, then turned her head to Giles, who was observing her patiently. She smiled.

"I'll be back in the morning," she assured, following in the footsteps of the vampire.

She had to jog to catch up with him. He was striding along with defying shoulder blades, which looked as though they were frowning at her under the leather. Finally she stopped.

"Hey!" she yelled and he halted as well, turning partially to give her a wondering glance. "So," she added. "You coming or what?"

He hid the smirk well, but not well enough as he came up to walk at her side.

"Didn't want to intrude," he said.

"Well, you're not."

"If I get in the way you don't have to worry, I can take a hint," he reassured.

"I'm sure you can," she replied, smiling slightly before killing it off, adding: "It's not like that."

"Just saying, if it is."

"Will you drop it, please."

"Since you ask nicely."

She glanced at him, rolling her eyes.

"You're so..." she trailed off.

"What? What am I?" he asked, smirking and she gave him quite a hard shove before leading the way down the stairs, which took them to the door of Angel's apartment.

"Come in," he yelled and Buffy shared a glance with Spike before pushing the door open.

Angel got off the bed and stood, granting Buffy a smile, barely acknowledging Spike's presence, grabbing a T and pulling it on.

Buffy glanced at the piece of furniture he had just risen from, its sheets wrinkled, remembering how she had given away her virginity in it, and how much she had loved the person she had offered it to.

"Oh," she said.

It was very quiet, but both vampires looked at her quizzically.

She smiled it away.

"Anything?" she then simply asked; eyes in Angel's.

He shook his head, resting his gaze in hers. Finally he moved it into Spike's and held it there with such an ironic expression Buffy could literally feel the irritation beginning to pound inside the vampire standing next to her. She quickly made the decision to depart. Expediently.

"Thanks," she said, turning and heading for the door.

However, Spike didn't. He stood right where he was, his gaze tearing into the older vampire's. How typical of him. Conceited, unrelenting peroxide fang-tooth that he was; had to pick a fight, even when there was no reason for it. None whatsoever.

Buffy returned the way she had gone; stopping at his side she reached out a hand. The tips of her fingers graced his for only a moment, but his eyes were in hers the following instant.

She didn't have to say a word, simply did as she had before, this time hearing the duster creak slightly as he got himself moving in her wake. She smiled a little, for no particular reason.

"What now?" he asked.

"Willy's," she replied.

**x**

They chose a well-trodden path taking them straight through the fourth cemetery and he had to conclude, quite smugly, that it really wasn't as nice as the seventh - where he had chosen to domesticate himself - but it wasn't nearly as bad as the tenth or eleventh, where there were no churches and nature had been left alone to do its will for far too long, leaving grass and weed to shoot up where it pleased.

Spike wondered what was going on in her head. It seemed as overgrown and unattended as those places of rest and he wished he could help her clear it. It had been muddled for some time now, and all this new growth couldn't possibly be healthy. She was completely there one minute, and distracted the next, and if he could only discern what it was that was the root of it all, then they could both understand what was going on. He had a feeling that the outcome of whatever they were facing in this place rested on her shoulders.

"What do you think it is, then?" he chose to disrupt the quiet between them.

"I don't know," she said. "Seeing as how the world is about to end pretty much every year, I'm thinking it might be something other than that this time. Something a bit more original, you know."

"Like a gay rhinoceros," he offered, wanting to break whatever the encounter with Angel had weighed them down with.

She glanced at him with a small smirk curving her lips. It was nice to know how to produce it; seemed like he was doing a lot of it lately.

"Like something mellow," she said. "A demon marching band singing prophecies after they've spent three thousand years practicing in the Hellmouth, now finally ready to spread the word."

It was his turn to smirk.

"Didn't know you were an optimist," he commented.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'm tired of being-..."

He grabbed her arm and effectively cut her sentence short as he pulled her back with him behind the wall of a low crypt, out of sight from the steps he could hear approaching. Voices were talking. Grunting, more like. Two demons came into view. It seemed like they were having a lively argument about something.

He became acutely aware of her breath sliding over the bare skin of his throat, her back pressed against the wall and half of her front pressed against him as he leaned against her. Her heart was skipping beats. He frowned, turning his eyes on her face. She seemed to barely be able to look up at him, but finally did, sort of sideways, sort of hesitantly.

"Wouldn't think two bitty demons 'd make you tremble, Slayer," he said slowly.

"They didn't... I'm not," she disagreed, pushing away from the wall, getting herself away from him, starting up the walk rigidly.

He followed.

"You never hide," she remarked.

Her mood was different. The distancing gig she had certainly made into some kind of an art form had gone from barely noticeable to a gray haze around her. He was absolutely sure it would be cold to the touch. How quickly she cloaked herself in it.

"No," he said to her statement. "But didn't think it'd be a good idea to have a Slayer sighting."

"The ones sighting me would in a very near future be dead," she bit and he smirked. "What?" she snapped.

"You don't attack demons who don't attack you. Those two wouldn't 've stirred up a fight, they'd've run the other way," he replied.

"Guess we'll never know that since you saw fit to drag us behind a _rock_."

The strange relaxation they had been experiencing snapped in half, flying out of sight. Had it even been there, or had it just been an elaborate illusion? Ungrateful little wench that he had always known she was had decided to rear her ugly face once more, just as he had almost forgotten what she looked like. He was nearly surprised at how quickly the anger blinded him. Somewhere inside him the demon snickered.

"What the _hell's_ the matter with you?" he exclaimed.

"Don't do me any favors, alright? I'll make the call if I should confront or cower."

"But you didn't bloody well _see_ them, did you? And I didn't cower."

"Of course not. Big Bad Vampires never cower."

Infuriating lift of an eyebrow.

"I'd drop the irony if I were you."

"Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do about it?"

And he hit her. He hit her to wipe that smug, intolerable, superior look off her face. He'd had enough of it. He didn't care about consequences. But the only one dished out was the return punch he got from her. No shooting pain through his skull, no reaction whatsoever from the wires and silicone in his brain, nothing. Just the soaring realization that in this place he wasn't crippled: he could throw away the crutches. He put his hands to his forehead, faked pain convincingly, and all the while he felt the most exhilarating thrill in knowing that he was unleashed once more.


	12. Blanket

**Chapter Twelve: Blanket**

Sire and Childe

She tasted like sun-warm blackberries. Her lips were softer than he would have thought, pliant, ready for every kiss, her tongue strong with the longing he sensed in her. He had seen it in her eyes the night he turned her. How she had wanted this, even when she had no way of recognizing it. It sweetened every sensation, made them drip with honey, as golden as her locks.

She was made for caresses, every curve of her smooth as silk; every line running into another; traceable, tantalizing. He explored her, feeling something close to obsession in wanting to find spots that had never been touched, every new tremble going through her acting as an extraordinary aphrodisiac.

**x**

He came back with drops of blood on his lower lip. It wasn't his. Its scent filtered down her nostrils, circled her taste buds and shot like bullets into her head, whirring through her thoughts until she felt she would rather have her mind be completely empty than experience this maddening rush, and having to resist it.

She had woken up in bed, alone. She had never felt as alone as in that moment. Ever.

She didn't look at him where he stood, but kept her gaze on the ocean outside the window before which she sat, still naked, with her legs pulled up against her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her clothes lay scattered about her, like driftwood on a beach, abandoned and anonymous. She should collect them into a heap, she should dress; she should leave. She should.

Suddenly she heard a giggle, the click of high heels on the short, uncarpeted piece of flooring in the hall, someone stumbling, bracing themselves with long-nailed hands against the small table standing against one wall, another giggle, and the person came into view. She was beautiful. Her hair worked like a black frame for her lovely face, for her full lips and dark blue eyes. She wore a short dress in red silk, black tights and leather boots. Buffy could see the attraction, and her insides curled in on themselves until she felt actual pain.

"Oh," the young woman said at the sight of her. "Is that her?" she added with a look at Spike that was so knowing Buffy felt she would have blushed, if she'd had the ability to.

What had he said?

Spike smirked at the stranger, reached out a hand to her and moved his eyes into Buffy's as the girl stepped close to him, his arm around her shoulders as he led her upstairs.

Buffy felt sick with anger. She tore her clothes on, almost ripping one of the sleeves off her shirt, a button flying out of sight, clicking against some unknown object, skidding into forgetfulness. She took the stairs three steps at a time. The kiss being shared was broken instantly, the girl's eyes widening with indignation. It was nothing like what Buffy felt in that moment. Firstly, she wanted to find something heavy and beat Spike until he couldn't stand. Secondly, she wanted to tear the lips off the ignorant little fool of a girl who even dared touch him.

"Hey," the girl in question said. "I thought it wasn't a big deal," she added, looking back at Spike.

"It isn't," he replied, eyes in Buffy's.

She didn't know what the look in them said. It was expectant, but more in an ironic way than anything else, and it fed her fury until she felt like letting her previous urge have full reign, claw the girl's prettiness to bits, just to see the expression on his face when the deed was done. She managed to restrain it, however, and fastened her gaze in the eyes of the unnamed.

"Get out," she said.

The girl smiled.

"Listen, sister, he picked me up, alright. You go take a walk, work off some of that frustration and let us have some fun. I'm sorry, but if you can't satisfy your man, he's gonna come looking for something better."

The girl wasn't much older than her, Buffy concluded. Goddamn Jerry Springer generation.

She tilted her head slowly to the side, not amused and even less impressed by this scarcely dressed pop-princess wannabe. What she needed was a dose of reality, before she ended up pregnant and bitter and alone in some backwater community so obscure it was barely marked on a map.

And so, Buffy moved, faster than she had ever moved before. She practically lifted off the floor, the room around her becoming a mere blend of colors perceived in the shortest part of a second, and she knew that the mortal hadn't even registered it beginning and ending. To her, she had gone from standing in the doorway to standing right in front of her, in a literal blink. The girl drew a sharp breath.

Buffy felt how she consciously made the muscles of her face move. They pulled and tugged at her flesh, shifted gracefully, and at the sight of the horror in the other's eyes she knew the transformation was complete.

"He's no man," she said in a low voice in response to the other's short attempt at persuasion.

The girl screamed – once – as Spike vamped out as well, and then she was a-clatter out the room, her heels violating the stairs before the front door closed with a loud, short echo. It felt almost too anti-climactic; as though they should at least have left a few scratch marks on her.

Buffy shook her features back into human and slowly turned her eyes in Spike's. The fiend.

"You done?" she asked. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Making a point," she added.

He smirked.

"Wasn't making anything."

His smirk widened.

"So, this is the way it is?" she asked, ignoring the ache that was carefully spreading throughout her.

His smirk faded, his demon retracted, his eyes blue as they rested in hers.

"This is the way it is," he confirmed.

"Right," she mumbled. "So if I bring someone here..."

"You bring all the someones you want. I'm not staying."

"And where are you going?"

He nodded to the bedside table behind her. She walked up to it, lifting the airline tickets lying there and reading them before turning a frown on him.

"There are two tickets," she remarked.

He was silent. Of course. Drusilla.

"So, you're going to throw it away?" she wondered, feeling sadness scurry with precision to all those most dreadful places within her. She said the words before she had heard herself think them. "What was it all about? Before?"

"Oh, bloody Lord, here we go," he exclaimed. "Now we need to explain it, do we? You want a label on a few hours of plain, wholesome shagging?"

She stared at him. She had the sound of his moans fill her head, how he had moved inside her, how his hands had woken her skin until she felt like all of her was set aglow; his kisses deep, hungry. Everything gaining a completely new meaning with the sentence he had just spoken. It cut her. She was surprised to realize that she hadn't expected to hear those words. She had expected an acceptance. She felt her eyes grow moist, and it made her even angrier with him.

"God, I really do _hate_ you right now!" she yelled before turning around and running out of the room.

He wasn't late to follow.

"No, no, we're having fun here!" he called after her. "I'll tell you what it was all about. It isn't complicated, I know you'll understand, and if not, I'll be more than willing to give you a full-on practical explanation." He was on her heels now. "It was about wanting and getting. It was about taking. Wasn't about giving, wasn't about anything deeper than your throat."

She swirled around and hit him across the jaw and he stumbled against the railing of the stairs, but he was on her before she could continue the last few steps, pinning her to the wall with one hand around her neck, his chest against hers.

"You wanted it, just as much as I did," she got out, moving her head from side to side to try and shake him, but it didn't work, and his grip tightened.

"Not saying I didn't," he replied. "But this... it's not even lust. It's you being tied to me, and me to you, and we've nothing to say in it. You made your choice the moment you drank of me."

"You made yours," she bit. "Why did you? Tell me why. I need to know."

He stared at her, his gaze intensifying until she felt her legs begin to grow unsteady with the spreading heat, and then his mouth caught hers, his hand letting go as she wrapped her arms around him, returning his kiss greedily.

**x**

He fell asleep on the floor, half covered by a blanket that had fallen off the couch as they brutalized it with their eagerness. She propped her head up in one hand and observed the outline of his face in the blueness of the moonlight. Her gaze wandered down his forehead, sliding to the tip of his nose, gracing his chin and working its way down a chest she had gotten intimately familiar with over the past few hours.

He was gorgeous.

She sat up and got to her feet, leaving his side with something stubborn shaping itself around her heart. She hated being this weak. She hated how he affected her, and how much worse the affect of him was now. She hated how she hated that he had left.

She leaned against the cool glass of the window, pressed her weight against it and closed her eyes.

She knew it was only a matter of time before the stillness was shattered and came crumbling down in chaos around her. This, whatever this was, hadn't even begun and yet she could perceive Drusilla planted firmly between them, like a wilting rose bush, and she knew that whenever he scented it, he would remember her.

She couldn't stand it.

She opened her eyes and looked out over the waves which in slow motion seemed intent on reaching further up the shore than they ever had before, every time a second away from succeeding before they had to relent and pull back to join with their vast origin.

She turned around, leaning her back against the glass as her eyes took in the vampire still lying on the floor.

She wanted him to be hers.

It was like a searing, overwhelming must, banging itself bloody against her temples. It was possessiveness unlike anything she had felt before. She wanted to chain him to her. And she knew then that he was right. It was the blood tying them together; it was the demon in her calling for its counterpart in him. It was fragile, in all its persuasiveness, and would fall apart with every new daybreak because it wasn't special, and daylight would expose it. She was a childe in need of her sire; nothing more.

She let her gaze drift over him and smiled a very small smile.

He was gorgeous.

She went down on all fours and crawled up to him, letting her face hover above his before she moved her head and sucked the fullness of his lower lip in between hers. One of his hands slid up her back, making her smile widely. They were incompatible in everything, but this.

**x**

"Hey," she said, sitting up and turning to him where he was just sliding the duster over his shoulders. "Where are you going?"

He observed her ruffled hair, her sleepy eyes, which were carrying the slightest hint of worry, and the blanket hanging loosely over one shoulder, covering most of her, except her left arm and the curve of her breast. He fought the urge to touch her again.

"I'm hungry," he said simply.

The worry was replaced with what he assumed was reproach and he shook his head at her.

"There's some blood in the fridge," he informed.

She pulled the blanket around her and stood. He hesitated, but thought it made sense to ask her. In what particular anti-reason-and-practicality realm this sense hailed from, he wasn't prone to ask himself – it just wasn't like him to waste a perfectly good plane ticket. And he thought he saw an opportunity to absolve himself of her. No more responsibility, no more of this ridiculous farce they were indulging in. It would be finished.

"So, you wanna come, you can come, I guess," he therefore said.

She frowned, halting in the doorway of the kitchen, her eyes in his.

"But there's some blood in the fridge," she replied.

"To Europe," he clarified, slightly impatient.

She stared at him.

"Guess I might, then," she said.

He shrugged.

"It's just a passage over."

"Right."

"Once we get there..."

"Sure."

He gave a nod and left, feeling confident that this was the best solution. Once they got to their destination they would go their separate ways. A lot of history in Europe; the Aurelian line had always had a strong foothold there. She could walk the paths he had walked as a newborne; learn the things he had learned. She was strong already, but there she could become a warrior again.

He just needed to find the proper tutor, and he already had someone in mind whom he thought would fit her perfectly.


	13. Knack

**Chapter Thirteen: Knack**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

They crossed the street taking them to Willy's. The sign shone its lights in welcome, Buffy half expecting it to flicker off as they drew nearer, in objection to their mission not being of the paying kind. She glanced at Spike, who hadn't said a word since her fist dented his chin for the second time in twenty-four hours. She hadn't hit him like this in so very long. Though it wasn't so very long, not really; it just felt long. She glanced at him again, her toe getting caught on the edge of the sidewalk and she stumbled against him, his hands helping her find her balance before she stepped out of their soft grip, shaking her hair behind her shoulders and straightening her posture to cover just how disheveled she felt.

"Don't know what's wrong with me," she muttered, hearing how it switched more into the shape of an apology than the explanation she had meant, turning her eyes in his, mostly to see if he had noticed it.

He smiled slightly, having her decide that he clearly had. The expression in his gaze was both humorous and smug, but she got the feeling it had nothing to do with how she had just displayed even a smudge of consideration a mere handful of minutes after having physically abused him. It was rather as though he knew something she didn't; a secret he wouldn't divulge for anything. She narrowed her eyes, but his smile merely widened a millimeter before he gestured to the door. She stood still for another moment, then turned demonstratively and led the way inside.

**x**

He did feel smug. He felt he had every right to feel smug. He loved her. He had never doubted that what he felt was real, but he had never had any substantial proof, and so he had questioned his motives; and he had wondered, in those early hours of the morning, what he might do if the chip ever malfunctioned. A lot of the time he hated her for what she was doing to him. A lot of the time his demon cried out for her blood; making him want her dead as much as he wanted her in his arms. But now he had the choice to watch her live or watch her die. He could slam her up against a wall and sink his fangs through her flesh, or he could take the spot next to her at the counter and listen to her voice, watch her shoulder curve as she leaned forward, and long to possess her; and even if the longing near enough drove him mad, he wanted it there. He knew what it was like when she was gone, and he never wanted to go back to that place. It was too haunting, too harrowing, like a wasteland with no horizon. No, she would never come to any harm by his hand, but the fact that it was a conscious choice, as opposed to a prison for his serial killer, made him feel empowered.

And smug.

The bar was sporting a few colorful demons sitting at a table, drinking something resembling light-yellow guck, the origin of which he wasn't too keen on knowing. The smell of stale smoke seemed to have set permanently in the worn paint covering the walls, and it – mixed with the stark stench of sweat from countless species of the underworld, which lingered long after they had chosen to exit the establishment – made the Slayer wrinkle her nose.

"Oh, no," Willy muttered when he turned around and his eyes landed on their two forms. "What're you doing here? The Scoobs will have your head on a platter," he added to Spike, who cocked an eyebrow, ironically.

"We're not them," Buffy said.

"You're not...?" he began, but Buffy interrupted him impatiently.

"We need information on whatever's happening in the Hellmouth."

"What makes you think I have information about any happenings in the Hellmouth?"

"Willy," she snapped and he stopped drying the already dry glass in his hands, putting it down and leaning forward.

"If you're not them, you've adopted all their personal traits to the letter. Not to mention their choice of wardrobe," he said with a glance at Spike's leather duster.

"We're not them," Spike repeated Buffy's statement.

Willy cocked an eyebrow.

"I guess if you're not them, and you're here, while they're not, it won't hurt me to tell you that it's their fault that there's anything at all happening in the Hellmouth. December is usually a quiet month, you know."

"We know," the Slayer and Vamp said in perfect unison, sharing a quick glance.

"Go on," Buffy urged the bartender, who eyed them for a full minute before finally drawing a slight breath to do as she asked.

The pub was nearly empty of patrons, but he lowered his voice just the same.

"There was a guy in here. You just missed him. Said some eerie things, man. Served him a glass of the good O-neg. Didn't make him chatty, but he was mumbling when he came in here and he didn't stop, except for downing the drink."

"_What _did he say?" Buffy asked, Spike concluding she wasn't in her more charitable conversational mood this evening.

"Something about a reckoning," Willy replied, either ignoring Buffy's shortness of tone, or being so used to it that it didn't even warrant a reaction; continuing: "That events have taken place that weren't supposed to. They have to be 'rectified'. Made it sound nasty. Then again, he was mumbling."

"I'm not paying you a penny," Buffy stated.

"You never do," Willy sighed, drawing back and picking up the glass again.

"Why would you think it's got anything to do with them, if he was 'mumbling'?"

Willy's eyes met hers again.

"Listen, the night the Slayer was turned wasn't the most silent of nights, alright? Things shifted. Like the machinery of Sunnydale stopped for a moment. Like there was a glitch in the bolts and mechanics that runs this town."

"Xander'll be so pleased," Spike murmured, Buffy shooting him a glare, receiving a slight smirk for her effort before she turned back to the other.

"Every demon in the place could feel it," Willy added meaningfully.

"Lying on thick with the drama won't make me swallow it," she said. "Anything else?"

"Nope."

"Anything else?" she repeated, his eyes meeting hers and growing slightly jerky at her cool observation before he said:

"Something about the Mark of Nebulon."

Buffy turned a questioning frown on Spike, who shook his head he'd never heard of it before, and she gave Willy a nod before heading back out the door.

"So," Buffy said. "I knew it. Of course it's got to do with _them_! I just _knew_ it."

"Sure you did."

"I did! This is so all _his_ fault."

"Thought you'd established there's no point placing blame," Spike remarked.

"He used some sort of a thrall or something. Don't you have those? Thralls to put on people so they get all defenseless and..."

She trailed off as she met his wondering gaze.

"Never mind," she said.

"Even if we did, not saying we do, they'd never work on a slayer, love," he replied and she nodded that of course they wouldn't. "We should find this demon," he suggested.

"Yeah," she immediately concurred. "You follow that hot trail of O-neg and I'll go ask Giles about that Neuron thingy."

"Nebulon."

"Right."

She headed back the way they had come and he realized she was serious. He stood for a moment, concentrating, and then he turned down the street to his left; following the scent he could perceive on the wind.

**x**

She half-walked, half-ran back toward Giles' apartment, all the while having the strongest sensation of the vampire still being close to her. It was as though he had filtered through her clothes, as though the coolness of his skin rested a mere centimeter from hers and all she had to do was reach out a hand and she would feel him.

He was everywhere.

His scent made her feel dizzy as it teased her nostrils; the touch of the duster kept returning, stroking itself against her fingers and making her turn her head to see if he had actually appeared next to her. Ever since he had seen fit to drag her into that game of hide-no-see, she had felt this absolutely mouthwatering need to touch him. She had fought it back violently as he stood close to her, the front of his body pressing into the side of hers as they leaned out of sight against that crypt. _God_. She had practically felt his hands already running over her skin and it had produced an alarming spinning in her head, neither of these sensations making it any easier for her to get herself away from him.

Practicality had prevailed, though, and her lack of immediate answers to the questions poking themselves up in her mind made her pick that inexcusably unnecessary fight; and she admitted now that it had been exceedingly childish of her. But it was _Spike_. And tripping, pretty much over her own feet, was unlike her and it had thrown her even more than the sudden nearness of him. That fine husky scent of him. And now she couldn't rid herself of it.

She reached the courtyard outside Giles' place and her pace slowed until she was standing perfectly still. Her breathing was labored, but more from the delicate feel of lips caressing her neck, the curve of it, her shoulder, as though he was behind her, just one tiny foot away from her, and was reading her mind, doing its will, asking her to listen to it.

She opened her eyes, not having realized she had closed them, and hurried up to the door. It wasn't locked. She stepped inside and shut it behind her with a bang that hadn't been intended, closing it in the face of the apparition, though she knew it was in her head. All in her head. It was where it had been born that was the agonizingly crooked question mark.

She drew an unsteady breath, turning to face Giles as she heard him come down the stairs. Kendra soon stumbled into her line of sight as well, pulling a soft-looking bathrobe into a tight cocoon around her frame, and they all met by the living room table.

"Sorry," Buffy said. "About the slamming. It's to do with Spike and Buffy. The other two. They're causing it."

"Door-slamming?" Giles asked, but Buffy barely seemed to hear him.

"Where are they?" she more or less demanded, as though Giles was hiding them on one of the shelves in one of the cupboards in the kitchen.

"We can't find them," Giles said.

"Never mind," she brushed the topic aside. "There's something else. A need. A _lead_. The Mark of Nebulon."

Giles looked wide awake in the following moment.

"Oh, quite exciting piece. Mesopotamia, circa 200 BC. Found in '95 near the rudiments of an old pagan church and is believed..."

"Giles. Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, the Museum of Natural History. It is part of the 'Mysticism: Then and Now' exhibition. I've been looking forward to seeing it."

"It's in Sunnydale?" Buffy asked. "Think you'll be seeing it up close and personal," she added, turning around and leaving again.

"Wait!" Kendra called after her, still blinking sleep out of her eyes.

Giles turned his gaze in hers.

"Go back to bed," he said, patting her arm encouragingly.

**x**

She full out ran through the fourth cemetery, thinking he couldn't have gotten far, letting the prospect of finding a way to stop whatever they had been brought here to stop and return to their own dimension press all the other thoughts aside and steadfastly hold them there.

She met him halfway through the cemetery, on the grave of Davy Jones Jr.

"Unfortunate name," she commented distractedly before turning her gaze in Spike's, discarding any goose bumps that softly spread over her arms at the sight of him – they were too unfamiliar and unwelcome and she blamed them entirely on the cold night.

She kept her eyes from drifting to his mouth, listening to what he had to say.

"I followed him as far as the train station," he declared. "Two trains had just left. One for Los Angeles, one for Chicago."

"Good," she said. "Shouldn't be too hard to trace, if there's one needed. You good at breaking and entering?"

"Have a knack."

"It'll come in handy. Let's go."

He smirked and she mirrored it, noticing how easily it appeared on her mouth and frowning a little. She kept her gaze from wandering anywhere near him as she hastily led their path to their new destination.


	14. Oh

**Chapter Fourteen: Oh**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

Buffy crept along the wall of the building hosting the museum. It was an ugly construction in brown brick, the sandpaper surface of which scraped against her jacket and did nothing good with her hair. Spike walked patiently on the grass a few feet away and she halted.

"Will you at least _pretend_ to be doing this inconspicuously?" she asked.

He observed her for a moment.

"No," came the short reply. "It's the middle of the night," he added, his tone implying that she was a child of the younger variety, which aggravated her severely. "There's nobody here," he finished, walking ahead to the entrance doors.

She disliked the way he did it, and was on his heels in hot pursuit of a quick fix for her frazzled leadership.

"We're not getting in through those," she informed, joining at his side as he couldn't resist checking if they were even locked. They didn't rattle, and stood solidly in place. "There's an alarm," she added, self-assured, as she remembered once having heard her mother speak of them installing one.

"There's no alarm," he stated, sounding matter-of-fact.

"I suppose you break into museums in Sunnydale on a regular basis," she clipped.

"I know you suppose," he said with a half-smirk. "There are alarms around some of the artifacts inside, but there's a guard. There's no alarm on the doors."

She crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed that he was most certainly right. He was a criminal, after all, and criminals would know such things. He probably had the schematics of the entire museum tucked away in that seldom-put-into-good-use master mind of his.

"Fine, Knows Everything boy. How do we get in?" she challenged.

"Roof," he answered.

"This is great. Just great," Buffy murmured as they, three minutes later, squatted by a skylight overlooking the main showroom. "Do we grow wings and fly down, or?"

"We jump."

She estimated the drop and then had to admit that it was doable.

"You're lucky I'm so bendy or this plan would not work," she remarked. He blinked, staring at her in the most impertinent manner imaginable and she gave him a look. "My knees. They're bendy."

He smiled a little and she huffed away her reciprocating the expression.

He pried the window open quite easily and held it up for her. She tried to insist that he'd go first, but he insisted more and she lowered herself down, swatting away his attempts at helping her, hanging freely, only holding on to the edge of the skylight for a short moment before she let go, falling through the air and landing with a rather loud thud, but on both feet, on the floor below. He followed soon after, standing and looking up at the way they had come. He seemed awfully pleased.

"Oh, kill the Cheshire grin," she said, though she couldn't suppress a small smile.

They heard footsteps and ducked behind one of the large columns standing scattered about the room. The columns were forming a circle pattern, whereas a number of pillars stood in a square pattern outside of them. The latter were decorated in carvings, having oval holes serve as shelves for a vast variety of curiosa. The room was dim, light fixtures running against the walls on the floor, casting triangles of brightness to illuminate paintings and sculptures.

Buffy crouched down as the footsteps got closer, her eyes finding Spike where he was squatting a few yards away. His stance showed the intense focus he was under. He looked like a predator in that moment; she could almost hear him growl softly. She chased the thought away as his eyes were suddenly in hers and she was embarrassed beyond words to find that he had caught her looking at him.

The haphazard attraction that had grabbed her in such a tight hold not that much earlier was growing fuzzy and inconsequential, but a trace lingered, like the teeth of a comb running through her hair, the sensation there for the extent of its momentary motion, and gone with the next. She just had to decide not to brush her hair. Because it was Spike, and he was sure to get entangled in her tresses and end up causing a terrible mess. She smiled a little at the thought, glancing over at him again and suddenly wondering when she had started relaxing her guard around him, because it was barely paying any attention to what he was doing at all.

She had forgotten all about the footsteps when a man dressed in a gray uniform entered the room. He was rather large, but surveyed his surroundings in such a bored manner before leaving again that she quickly determined he would cause no trouble.

She straightened up. Spike did the same.

"Life in the fast lane, eh, Slayer?" he whispered and she granted him a small smile before beginning to walk around the space of the exhibition, not entirely sure of what she was looking for.

A large display in the middle of the room drew her to it. It was a scale model of a handful of European cities, depicted in their 19th century apparel. Paris. Berlin. Stockholm. London. Rome. Her eyes glided over the tiny houses and streets, the even tinier people and cars, the glass used for the rivers, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to disappear into that stiff world of precision, thinking that such absolute attention, which someone had given one of those miniature ladies walking down Regent Street with parcels in their arms, couldn't possibly be given anybody in the real world. It looked peaceful: absolute silence under a see-through roof.

"What're the odds?" Spike suddenly whispered and she jerked ever so slightly at the unexpected sound of his voice, his mouth just by her ear.

"What?" she whispered back, steadying herself with a short breath, which she held in wait for his reply.

"That this thing is right where it's needed when it's bloody needed? I mean, just now, of all the museums in the world, it's here."

She turned slowly to him, her face serious.

"Don't question it," she instructed.

"Right," he nodded.

"Go with it," she added.

"Sure," he agreed.

"Mesopotamia."

"Bless you."

She gave him a look.

"No," she said. "Look for... whatever they have – a _section_ to do with Mesopotamia," she clarified in light of his ignorance, and he smirked.

Why were her instructions, as of late, always cause of some sort of merriment on his part?

However, he did as she asked and she watched him go, realizing that she was doing so and instantly turning her gaze on the nearest cube of glass; containing arrowheads. The next carried nothing more interesting.

"Here," he hissed and she stalked up to him.

They read the inscription of the golden metal tag stuck to the glass and Buffy nodded.

"That's it," she agreed. "Thought it'd be a necklace of some sort."

"Why did you think that?" he asked ironically.

"The Mark of Nebulon. Sounds like something you wear."

"Who says it isn't?"

Before them, ensconced in glass and resting on black velvet, was a dagger. It was covered by a lovely and delicate inlaid pattern of gold and silver which was completely intact while the metal containing it was rusty with age. The handle was wrapped in gauze-like material which seemed to be falling apart, a thin thread of gold spiraling around it, holding it somewhat in place.

"Now what?" Buffy asked.

"You're the Slayer, you tell me," he replied and she glared at him.

She put one hand on either side of the glass cube, but it didn't budge.

"Lifting's no good," she concluded.

He drew his arm back and smashed his hand clean through the glass. The pieces still stuck to the remaining walls cracked ominously, but didn't break apart from where his fist had forced it to make way.

"Handy it was," he said. "No bells of doom, but leaving right about now would be a good idea," he added and she nodded.

"Got it?" she asked.

He pulled his hand out, the velvet wrapped around the dagger.

"Got it."

They ran to the middle of the room, stopped, looked up, looked at each other.

"How do we get out?" she exclaimed.

He had nothing to reply with and she threw her arms up in the air in exasperation before she turned and ran towards the door at the other end of the room. He followed. They slid the door open carefully and peered out. Everything was quiet.

"What in the _world_?" they heard a male voice behind them. "Hey! You two!" soon followed and they didn't hesitate.

They threw the door open, proceeding through it and across the lobby as the sound of running feet rapidly approached from behind. Buffy slammed, hands first, into the door, got the lock open without realizing quite how, as her fingers were shaking uncontrollably, and once the deed was done they both pushed the door open in such a rush it nearly flew off its hinges. They were out of sight before the guard had taken one step outside and he stared in perplexity into the deserted parking lot.

Buffy leaned against the back wall of the museum, clutching her chest where adrenaline was conducting its own beautiful concerto and she had to allow for every note to send sweet music through her. It had been a while since she had really listened to it; since she had had any reason to; but now life in all its purest forms seemed intent on filling her. She had to smile, and then she started laughing. Spike soon joined her, unable not to.

"What's that all about?" he asked as they calmed down.

"Nothing," she said, still smiling widely. "Let's go."

**x**

"It's _extraordinary_," Giles exclaimed, huddled over the dagger. "Flawless."

"That's great, but what does it do?" Buffy asked, lying sprawled on the couch whereas Spike had taken a seat on a chair behind her.

Kendra stood leaned against the doorway of the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hands.

"As far as I know, throughout history it has served many purposes," Giles said, "all of them in its own interest, all of them steeped in blood and death."

"Starting to wish we hadn't been in such a rush to snatch it," Spike muttered and Buffy turned her head to look back at him with an agreeing widening of her eyes.

"Also, you talking about this thing like it can think for itself – seriously creeping me out," Buffy said.

"There's an inscription on it," Giles stated.

"Can you read it?" Buffy wondered, sitting up.

"'Ye who wield me, steady thine hand.'"

"Informative."

"You know," Giles said, standing up, "I believe I have a more extensive background history on this in the library."

"I'll change my clothes," Kendra said, still sporting the bathrobe.

She disappeared into the guestroom as Buffy rose.

"Think I'll stay out of the sentence-diving research..." Spike began as Buffy walked around the couch.

She silenced him as she grabbed hold of one of the lapels of his duster and dragged him to his feet, saying:

"Oh, no, you won't."

Let go, she instructed herself, and she did, though he was still close and she turned her head to give him a sugar-cane smile, which made him look annoyed before it produced a smirk in return.

She was beginning to feel that something was seriously wrong.

**x**

"Here we are," Giles' voice could be heard from where his form was hidden behind a row of bookshelves.

He soon came into view with a thick volume in his hands, putting it on the table and opening it up to the passage he had already found. The left hand page carried a depicting of the dagger, while the right hand one was cramped with very small text. Buffy took one look at it before she sat down on a chair. She knew it was only a matter of time before Giles would start quoting it aloud so there really was no need for her to try and read it herself.

"Oh," Giles said.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Oh," he said again.

This was fairly disappointing in the revealing of the text department and Buffy frowned.

"What?" she repeated.

"Oh," Giles murmured, this time sounding quite hollowed out by whatever his eyes had to take in.

"_Giles_," she exclaimed.

He moved the book to her and pointed to a sentence. She read it. Then read it again.

"Oh," she said quietly, her gaze meeting Spike's and the blue of his eyes expanding until she felt it was pulling her in, literally; the table between them disappearing and she was on his lap with his arms around her, their lips a moment away from touching, her fingers slowly gliding over the skin of his neck, into his hair, and in the next blink the vision left her field of sight, she was on her chair again, the room as it always had been.

In a moment it was perfectly clear to her.

It wasn't her. It wasn't him. Not the way she had thought. It was Buffy. It was Spike.

"Oh," she said, even more quietly.

She had a flash of buildings she distantly recognized, a miniature scale of a city she had never visited, wooden cutouts of well-known sights which stood in a museum and now slowly grew into their rightful appearance as the city came to life before her eyes.

She drew a small breath.

"I know where they are," she said.


	15. Thither

**Chapter Fifteen: Thither**

Sire and Childe

London was like an instrument, seen in pictures and paintings, but never actually played for her to hear. Now, it was spreading its sound all around her, and she was eager to take it all in. So eager, in fact, that she completely forgot herself and grabbed at Spike's arm in sheer excitement, dancing on her toes at his side as they walked down Marylebone High Street, toward the place where they were apparently staying.

He brushed her hands off him, but she didn't care. She was busy absorbing her surroundings, allowing their impression to sink into the banks of her memory.

It seemed history had set its sights on this spot of the Earth most ferociously, conspiring for it to act as its embodiment in every degree, melding old with new, brick with concrete, wood with steel. Remnants of eras nearly forgotten stood with regal patience next to more contemporary acts of architecture. At this time of night the street was quiet, its narrowness only challenged by a handful of vehicles at a time; the shop windows lining it were dark, waiting for morning to proudly show off the contents of their bosoms, bidding new costumers to enter and gorge themselves on whatever treats tantalized them.

"So, where are we going?" she asked as he turned down a side street.

"Almost there," he replied.

"That so doesn't answer my question," she muttered, stopping beside him in front of a black painted door.

He bent down to fish around for a second or two in the vicinity of his right foot, and when he straightened up he was holding a key. She raised her eyebrows as he unlocked the door and placed one hand against it, sliding it open.

"Home sweet home," he said. "Please, step inside."

She frowned a little at the invitation, but did as he asked and headed inside before him. The door slid shut behind them and in the darkness she could smell aging stone, old carpet, and water infesting the gut of most of the walls. She heard the scrape of tiny claws, concluding there were mice living inside the floor of whatever room was above them, and somewhere someone was playing the piano.

The light clicked on and flooded the place in such a decisive manner she felt it unlikely they would be able to switch it off again. Spike stepped passed her, leading the way inside. The place was even more desolate in the sharpness of the lamps overhead. Blank, white walls and dank, stained carpets covering all the floors. A bed stood against one wall in the room they entered next. Free newspapers were scattered about it. A bloody handprint was smeared on the wall at the head of the bed, like a macabre ornament in place of a proper painting – or a glaring warning sign.

"This isn't your place," she said, making it into a statement since she couldn't sense a trace of him anywhere, let alone see one.

"No," he agreed. "But I've lived in it. From time to time."

His staccato sentences disclosed unwillingness to approach the subject on a less aversive note, but she felt he had, once again, refrained from coming anywhere near to answering her properly and so she held his gaze – once it found itself in hers – prompting for more details.

"It's a friend's," he elaborated evasively.

She blinked, staring at him nonplussed.

"I do have friends," he said at her expression.

"Doubt it," she retorted.

She walked across the floor, up to one of two windows, bringing aside the yellowing lace, which was hanging in front of it, and looking down at the street below.

"Well," she said, "at least it's pretty on the outside."

She turned back to him; the lace falling into place with a soft movement.

"In my experience pretty things usually have dark centers," he remarked.

"Really?" she said, watching him slide the duster off his shoulders.

What was it about that movement that made it so incredibly enticing – the sound of the leather against his skin? How the black of it bundled into even blacker creases when it hit the floor before being tossed aside, like oil having to succumb to his will? Or was it the clear, unavoidable message it sent straight to her groin that whatever it needed, it was about to have?

She swallowed, watching as he hooked his thumbs, rather slowly, into the belt of his jeans, tilting his head, abominably slowly, to one side, his eyes glittering in wait of her next move.

She licked her lips, desire flicking its tongue along the inside of her thighs, up the small of her back, hardening her nipples and making her breathing heavy. He had the smallest smirk trace his mouth and it was all it took. She was on him in a moment, jumping up and wrapping her legs around his waist, kissing him deeply, desperately, as they fell to the floor.

**x**

She propped her head up in her hands, lying on her stomach with his duster haphazardly slung over her midriff, her eyes on him where he lay, arms under his head, his form splendidly naked. She smiled a little. She had been thinking about this on the plane. Not exactly this, perhaps; her imagination hadn't failed to carry her away further than a bare bedroom in an – to her – obscure part of the grand city. In one scenario, for example, they had been in Harrods, based on a painting she had once seen which, in all probability, had been not even remotely close to what she now presumed Harrods to be – but it had been lovely, and candlelit. In another they had been inside the clock tower of Big Ben, the massive tick-tocking of its seconds filling her head as Spike filled her, their rhythm falling in with the master of time.

She had barely been able to touch him for ten hours, except conspicuous strokes placed strategically whenever sparse chances occurred; brushing her hand against his when they reached for the same overhead compartment before taking their seats; her knee softly relaxing against his once they were airborne. Little gulps to ease her thirst for him, since he had hardly glanced her way after they left for the airport, ignoring her completely for most of the flight, either pretending to sleep – though she knew he wasn't, since he breathed while he slept, she had noticed, and he hadn't breathed even a sigh, seated next to her – or engrossed in a newspaper, which had occupied him for more than one consecutive hour and she simply knew that he wasn't that slow a reader and that there couldn't possibly be that many interesting things happening in the world to engross him so thoroughly.

She had tried to ignore him in sourly return, but it hadn't quite worked. Mostly because she couldn't stay away from the map of London she had gotten for herself at the airport. It wasn't like she had stolen it. It was lying on the floor and instead of putting it back where it belonged she had put it in her handbag. It had the outline of the sole of a large shoe on the back of it anyway, it wouldn't be missed. The reason the map kept her attention on Spike was that every few minutes she'd find something she'd want to ask him about. Looking at all the foreign, though English and quite well-known, names she found herself just able to contain her mounting anticipation. She had wanted to go to London since she was six years old and saw Peter Pan for the first time in the theatre, with her father.

On the map before her, Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park joined at the hip with Green Park and St. James's Park, making one large, green splat to the right. Regent's Park was situated above it and she wondered how long it would take to walk the streets that criss-crossed between them. She had parted her lips to voice the question, but then thought better of it, allowing the intricate patterns of the flattened and simplified city to take the reins once more, guiding her down Bayswater Road and into Oxford Street, which seemed to slice through one third of the map in a beautiful, yellow ribbon. Regent Street curled down from it in a half-completed U, taking her to the heart of Piccadilly and further to Leicester Square, where she noted all the tiny, black and smiling masks announcing the abundance of theatres. She counted them. She hadn't been to see a live show in so long it made her head hurt to think of it. She, who had been such a know-it-all when it came to shows, bands and the venues in which to see them.

Once upon a time free of duty.

She suddenly realized she had been stripped of that duty. It lay somewhere, panting and abandoned, deserted, left for dead. She had killed it off. She had chosen to exist without it. An exhilarating blast of release made her shudder. She had freed herself.

She looked at Spike, getting not so much as a raised eyebrow as acknowledgment.

Only to find a new prison, she concluded derisively, sinking back against the seat.

Closing her eyes she had managed to fall asleep, only to wake up with her head against his shoulder, sitting up with the humiliating notion that she'd snored or dribbled saliva all over him or talked in her sleep. She had ventured a perilous glance his way, but he seemed not to have noticed her usage of him as a pillow. She supposed she should be grateful, but wasn't comforted and sank into shadowed musings for the rest of the journey, staring out the window, asking herself such questions as what she thought she was doing, exactly, and how she expected it all to end.

Now, in a scarcely furnished apartment in the heart of the city of his birth, and death, and rebirth, content and near him, she smiled, his gaze meeting hers. He was relaxed, as though their arrival had brought out a new side to him. Was it simple nerves at returning here that had kept him away from her for all those hours?

"This carpet's disgusting," she said, matter-of-fact.

"Sorry I couldn't put you up at the Palace," he replied, without sarcasm. "Had a bit of a fallout with the royals a few decades ago," he added, breezily. "Chewed on one of her majesty's poodles. Didn't come off too well."

She stared at him.

"What?" she finally mustered as a response.

"Oh, yeah. She was walking through Regent's Park. I was hungry. Couldn't very well feed off the old bat – us Englishmen do enjoy respecting the monarchy, you know – so I grabbed the pooch she was dragging in tow. Miserable little thing. Definitively better off."

She sat up, pulling the duster up in front of her chest, her eyes not leaving his face. He observed her calmly, and then he smiled. Widely. It took another few seconds for her to catch on, and then she gave him a hard punch in the chest before she giggled.

He killed off the remaining testimony of the joke and sat up, sighing, stretching and rising. He began to dress. As her heart sank she had the thought enter her head that he was abandoning her. That brief glimmer of friendliness had been his way of leaving with a clean conscience – he could always tell himself he was nice to her once. She suddenly had trouble looking directly at him, as though she was afraid he would be out of sight with the next blink of her eyelashes and that would be that. She felt she had sunk very low, from having prided herself for her reliance on herself to this simpering emotion within her. She didn't want him to go. She felt as though she would do anything.

He finished, looking at her. She had taken her eyes off him at some point, but she felt his gaze on her as easily as if he had been prodding her with a stick, and raised hers into it, tentatively. He was frowning slightly.

Of course – the duster.

She got to her feet, ungraciously, still holding the piece of leather as a provisory way of hiding her nakedness. She had no idea why she even bothered; there was not an inch of her he hadn't touched.

She rested her eyes in his for a long moment. Almost asking him what he thought he was doing. How he could play at losing himself in her so totally in one moment, to leave her desolate and disheveled the next. It didn't matter that it was nothing but an affliction, this desire; it was still desire unlike anything she had ever experienced before. It had roused her out of adolescent slumber and into a yearning that was not short of foreboding in its aggressiveness. And here it was, roaring within her, bidding her to do anything to keep the object of its needs from leaving her side.

Finally she silenced it with a sternness she brought forth from some stronghold still existing inside her and held out the duster to him by the neck, feeling bold at standing so exposed before him, as though her naked body was a novelty.

At first, his gaze didn't leave hers, but then it relented, and traveled down her lazily, kissing her between her breasts, around her navel, along one thigh. She bit her lower lip, her stomach aflutter once more and suddenly thinking of a way to keep him there.

She brought the duster around her, sliding her arms into the sleeves and wrapping them tightly about her form, her shape snug in the cool leather which enveloped her with his scent and nearness, her eyes turning challenging without her realizing it.

He approached her, lacking any hesitation, and she wondered if he was going to yank the piece of clothing off of her. But no such thing was going to happen. Instead, he stopped an inch from her, his shoed toes practically touching her bare ones; her head tilting back to look up at him. He rested his eyes in hers steadily, and then he slid his hands under the lapels of the garment, grabbing fistfuls of the leather and pulling her onto her toes before he joined their lips in a languid kiss.

He took his mouth away without her having anything to say about it and she suppressed the pout which vied to instantly gratify itself by making her lower lip protrude in a way she didn't know if he would find mildly adorable or merely irritating.

"Want to see the town?" he asked, and there was no way to get rid of the smile which spread on her face at that query.

**x**

"And here – Trafalgar Square," he declared with an unenthusiastic flare of one arm.

Buffy stopped, looking back the way they had come, the lights of Leicester Square just about discernible between the out-jutting corners of a few large buildings.

"It's so close," she said and he nodded, then shrugged.

"Didn't always have a tube. People had to walk," he replied, making her roll her eyes.

She continued past him, crossing the terrace of perfectly puzzled together slates of stone and walking down the steps taking her to the middle of the square. They had walked from the apartment, down Marylebone High Street to Oxford Street, Buffy's female side being far too giddy for his liking when taking in all the familiar and unfamiliar titles crowning the darkened shops, professing their stature and right to reside on the famous stretch of avenue. She had calmed herself slightly as they reached Oxford Circus, walking down Regent Street and entering Piccadilly Circus, where her eyes had widened but her mouth, at least, had kept quiet. He could see the exclamations just bursting to get out. Wow! Amazing! Beautiful! Wonderful! Triteness galore.

He kept forgetting she was just the regular tourist, in awe of seeing it all for the first time. To him, Oxford Street now flew its flags for commercialism, instead of class; neon had completely destroyed Piccadilly's former glory; Leicester Square was nothing but a handful of movie ads blown into outlandish proportion – London wasn't what it once had been. But it was good to breathe its air again.

Somehow, despite the smog that lay above it like a haze, underneath it all, London's scent prevailed.

This scent wasn't that of its inhabitants, which, back in the day, had consisted of sweat, dung and excrement yin-yanged with the stench of excess of perfume, encircled by soot and toil, as well as cooking food, baking bread, tobacco and one million finer scents which had attacked him from all sides, and which now unavoidably was laden with the pollution of traffic.

No, it wasn't this scent, but that of the city itself. One of rock and earth and tree and iron which had watched and listened and taken involuntary part of events that had shaped the current world; and which were ever present.

It did leave an impression, every time he came back; it was bittersweet to remind himself of who he had once been, William being only good for a laugh, or a feeling of uneasiness that was difficult to shake. He never had been fond of him to begin with, and the memories of the life he had lived were preserved with utmost reluctance and only ever brought forth within the confines of the city where they had seen their creation.

A hopeful group of pigeons, decked out in grey with splashes of white and black, as though set on looking like fat little matrons simply out for an idle walk, instead of the little urchins that they were, littered the square, staying close together and moving as one entity, as birds are known to do. He observed them in silence, contemplating what to do next.

He supposed the man of the hour would be at the local haunt; but if so, he might be out for a bite and Spike didn't want to slap Buffy down in the middle of that. He wanted her to get a good first impression. That first impression was important.

"Hey," he said, and she turned to him, smiling so bright it almost stung his eyes and he absorbed her happiness for an instant before he added: "It's getting late. Should head back."

They walked a different route home. He wasn't paying much attention to it, though Buffy was pointing at buildings in admiration, dancing around him, touching iron fences and gritty facades as though in reverence of their age. She was behaving like a ten year old, and somewhere he thought it quite touching that something dead and inanimate could rouse such sensations in her. He supposed he was jaded to it all, having seen the world the way he had, for decades, for a century. He suddenly felt excruciatingly tired.

"Spike," she said as they entered the apartment again.

The way she said it made him stiffen slightly in apprehension. She sounded as though she was about to ask for the moon, and wasn't quite sure how to phrase her request in order for him to adhere to it. He turned to her. She smiled a little.

"What do you...do?" she asked.

He was quite sure he had no idea what she was on about, and knew he looked it, because she added:

"I mean, is this it? You travel from one place to another and just... live?"

"Living's enough, though, ain't it?" he inquired, walking past her through the narrow hallway and into the single room of this particular floor.  
There were three more. But he didn't feel inclined to show them to her. There wasn't much to see anyway. None of its inhabitants had seen it fit to waste time, energy and usually limited funds on sprucing. Sprucing wasn't in their vocabulary, as it were, so the place had been left to decay in peace.

"Yeah, it's enough," she mumbled behind him before following. "But..."

He faced her in the darkness of the room, broken only by the light falling in through the windows supplied by the streetlamps beyond them.

"How do you live?" she asked.

He eyed her for a few seconds before he had to smile.

"I'm the villain of the story, remember?" he said, getting rid of the duster and kicking off his shoes.

"I remember," she acquiesced.

"I steal and pillage, burn and plunder, and sometimes, if I'm lucky," he smirked, having pulled his T over his head as he approached her and sliding his bare arms around her petite frame, fitting himself against her before pulling her to him, finishing: "I get away with murder."

Her eyes were already growing misty with arousal and he had to marvel at how she responded to him. At first she had seemed as though she was holding back, but now she was growing bolder with each embrace, beginning to take as much as she was giving, as much as she was willing to receive, which was everything. He let his hands run down her back, under her jacket and shirt, seeking the softness of her skin, stroking it as he joined their lips. He melted into that kiss, as he had every other; finding nourishment for an inexplicable hunger as the taste of her stroked his tongue.

He began to undress her. Daylight wasn't far away. They would rest, and tomorrow night would see them part ways. And he would smother his appetite as easily as he had made the decision to bring her here. And then he would find the vampiress he could feel creeping around the back of his skull, like a phantom of longing and unfulfilled destiny.

And he _would_ win her back.


	16. Light

Serious love to Brunettepet, nickbuket, cordykitten (who reviewed every single chapter, the darling!) :), and dear Kirsten. Brunettepet and Kirsten - I hope you will have a blast on your trips and since you're reading this now that you've returned - welcome back!

To those of you reading, I just hope you're enjoying! :)

Much love,

the author.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Sixteen: Light**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

The air in the living room seemed to slowly grow devoid of oxygen, her breath sucking it into her lungs and transforming it into something un-breathable. Something heavy, that threatened to crush her. It began to circle her, prowling the contained space around the couch which contained her, and she lost patience with doing nothing to stop it, throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The Something Heavy scuttled into a corner, turning light as a feather and sailing through the stillness, out of sight.

Outside the windows dawn was breaking, shattering the darkness with shafts of the purest of light, splitting the shadows into different shades of grey and reflecting itself in unabashed vanity within a thousand dew drops fastened in the strands of grass in the lawn.

How could anyone give this hour up? How could she have forsworn her right to the sunshine on her face? Buffy.

The Slayer turned away from it, from the view of her ally and the thoughts jostling for space in her overwrought brain, wrapping her arms around her and walking back to the couch; the oppressiveness of breathing having been forgotten among all the other things picking for attention; her head like a cage filled with fluttering birds, their beaks tormenting her obstinately and whatever she did to try and calm them or quiet them or stop them only seemed to agitate them even more.

She was cold and wrapped the blanket around her, pulling her legs up and resting her chin on her knees, clasping her hands together in front of her ankles and wishing she could just relax, and rest assured in the knowledge that what she had to do was the right thing.

The right thing.

Always the right thing.

"What's right?" she murmured.

**x**

Spike lay staring at the ceiling of the crypt. He never lay staring at the ceiling of anything. He grumbled. The rising sun was sending stray rays through the small windows, wide beams of light falling across the room, highlighting the dust hanging unstirred in the air before pooling on the cement of the floor. It wasn't often that he couldn't fall asleep, but he was oddly worried. About Buffy. She had gone white as a sheet and had yet to regain her color when he left Giles' place. She had looked at him oddly, too. Almost like she had expected him to stay.

He huffed at himself, grinding his back into the unfriendly stone of the sarcophagus beneath it, trying to churn the thought out of him, practically expecting to see the stuff of it mix with the dust of the space he was occupying. It didn't. But it disappeared all the same.

He turned over on his side, closing his eyes stubbornly.

In twelve hours he would be on a plane, with Buffy at his side. Whatever he imagined he'd sensed in her didn't matter. It was of so small significance when looking at what they were facing. What she was facing. And yet, could he possibly have imagined it? The way she had been staring at him at the library. He had felt as though there was no table separating them, like she was right behind him, wrapping her arms around him, nestling her face in the cranny of his neck, breathing him in.

He sat up, shaking the memory as though he was afraid it would stain, getting to his feet.

This was one moment when he couldn't be selfish. He refused to be selfish. If there was anything to pursue – which there wasn't – he wouldn't even attempt it. She had looked as though she was about to be sick when he left her at Giles'. Like she was leaning against an invisible hand that could take itself away at any moment, and then she would sag to the floor.

Had he made the wrong decision when he walked away from that expression in her eyes? But what would have been the right decision? He wanted to let the swirl of hope become a whirlpool in his chest, but hindered it as forcefully as the urge manifested itself. He was out of practice with right and wrong. He had lost track of how to distinguish them properly. And so if he had made the wrong decision leaving, even when he couldn't allow himself to be too close to her...

"What's right, then?" he mumbled.

**x**

"Hey."

Buffy looked up, meeting Spike's gaze. She disliked the sense of normalcy he brought forth in her, as though she had been waiting for him to appear so that she would be reminded that all of this wasn't her reality, and that she had been forced into it against her will. That she had no control over it.

And she disliked the probing way with which he was watching her, as if he expected her to burst into tears or have a meltdown of equal measure at any moment, and was thinking that if he caught it in time - the merest inclination that she was headed that way - he would be able to prevent it. Like he, of all people, ever could. But his eyes were concerned and she felt genuinely comforted by it, which in turn curled her already coiled nerves.

"Hi," she greeted him swiftly, giving him a quick smile before she walked into the kitchen, putting a welcomed wall between them. "Giles is getting our passports. Kendra's patrolling," she added, as some sort of explanation why no one else was occupying the apartment except for them.

She clanked the silverware loudly as she placed it in the dishwasher before closing it, returning into the living room and raking the table clean of books, bringing them in her arms over to one of Giles' bookcases, straightening them out as she went, wearing a slight frown as she began to replace them, reading their spines, careful to put them in the right place.

"He'll drive us to the airport," she said, glancing at Spike, who took a seat on the couch, observing her interestedly.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" she retorted.

"Impersonating a librarian?"

She turned sideways to meet his gaze.

"A librarian who could find interesting uses for a load of very heavy books," she raised her eyebrows.

He smirked a little and she returned to her task.

"Get any sleep?" he wondered.

"Yeah. Sure. You?"

"Yeah. Some."

Her hand paused involuntarily at the slight admission and the question in her mind of whether he might be a bit shaken up as well. She discarded it, putting the last book back and closing the glass door of the bookcase before turning around. She wondered why they could chat about the absolute most mundane things, start arguments over inconsequential subjects, and use the fact that they were combat compatible in the necessary circumstances, and yet, here, now, in the silence, she was stumped for conversational topics.

Converse.

Had they ever?

He was still observing her intrusively, as though this conundrum was spelled out above her scalp and he could read every aspect of it, waiting for her to find the solution instead of chipping in with an alternative of his own.

"So," she said at last, "is London nice this time of year?"

His face softened with amusement and she felt her cheeks begin to heat up just as the front door opened and Giles – savior wielding false passports – entered, bringing a chilled breeze with him.

"What are you doing standing about?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

"Actually, I'm sitting," Spike pointed out, the Watcher discarding this piece of information without consideration.

"Are you ready?" he instead asked Buffy.

"Didn't exactly have anything to pack," she replied, crossing to him as Spike got to his feet. "Let me see," she added, reaching out her hand for her passport.

She flipped it open, looking at the picture with a frown. Spike slipped up behind her and she shut it with a snap, smiling a small smile. He was handed his passport and glanced at it, keeping it out of sight for her, though she strained her neck theatrically to see it, her smile widening when he pocketed the small booklet with a satisfied cocking of one eyebrow.

She led the way outside.

"I remember this car," Spike stated as they reached the vehicle in question. "_You_ were a demon in this car," he added, pointing a meaningful finger at Giles.

"Ignore him," Buffy said.

"I always do," Giles assured, getting into the driver's seat.

**x**

Spike waved the offer of food away and the flight attendant continued on her way. Buffy opened the plastic ensconcing her piece of bread, pulling the plastic-cover off the hot meal in its sad, white, one-serve-only container, grabbing her plastic cutlery and digging in.

"Not bad," she nodded.

"You realize you've barely eaten in twenty-four hours," he reminded between her chewing and swallowing.

"That's not true," she protested. "I had a nice breakfast at Giles'."

"Oh, sorry, twelve hours."

She gave him a look.

"It's really not that bad," she assured.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, his gaze resting on one of the pretty attendants and thinking how simple it would be to charm his way onto her neck.  
Mentally crumbling the thought up he turned his head to look out the window. Night spread its vast glory before his gaze and far below him the lights of Houston or Atlanta or some such twinkled and shimmered and declared that here, in all that blackness, was life going on as it always had.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thinking a snooze wouldn't be all that bad; he wasn't sure when he'd get a chance to catch one next. He was just about to lose himself in slumber when Buffy's voice yanked him out of it with its softness speaking very close to his left ear.

"I haven't been on a plane in seven years," it said, making him turn his gaze in hers. "And that was only to go to Florida on one of those dreary cousin reunion things with people I hardly ever see and pretty much have no desire to ever see, so it wasn't exactly like I was jumping in my seat with excitement."

He allowed a twitch in the corner of his mouth, his half-asleep brain not quite able to make it stick and turn into a smirk.

"And are you jumping now?" he offered.

She leaned her head back as well, looking past him out the window with a rather wistful look on her face. It was so unlike anything he had ever seen on her before that it sobered him up quite efficiently and cleared the fog of near unconsciousness until he found himself actually waiting for an answer.

"A little," she admitted with a small smile. "I just know it's not going to be as fun as I've always expected it to be," she added, her face growing serious.

What to say? How to soothe?

"It'll be okay, you know," he finally got out, her eyes slowly rising to his, looking almost as though she trusted him enough to take that statement to heart; though he knew, of course, she did nothing of the sort.

She drew a breath to say something, but then changed her mind – or thought better of it – and looked down at her hands instead, sighing gently, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

He surmised that this was the end of the tentative exchange, but found himself unable to take his eyes off her face.

She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He clenched his jaws together at the uproar of contradictory emotions which fled through him at the thought; his demon chiding him with laughter and blood lust and irreparable conceit. Claim her! it barked at him. Claim her now! But his hands wouldn't listen, when all they wanted was to stroke her skin with her consent of the act as clear in her eyes as the hatred she was known to have shown him so many times before. The laughter filtered out everything else as the demon mocked him.

He took his gaze from her face and focused it out the window again.

It had always been his downfall, after all. His bleeding heart. Before. It had always been his downfall _before_. Not now. Or more now than ever before. It felled convictions, which had been setting themselves around the core of his being for one hundred years, as easily as lightening split the wood of an ancient tree in an ancient forest and there was a wilderness now, within him, that he couldn't cut down. It lent obscurity to paths well-trodden, and left surprising patches uncovered by anything but a need to lay her down on them, safe, within him.

He snorted loud enough to cause her to stir, and regretted the harshness of it before frowning deeply at how he was losing his marbles, clearly,because of this throwable specimen of a female, perfectly vulnerable and exposed in her position next to him. He could kill her now; wring her neck with one swift flourish of a movement.

He smiled then, his eyes once more on her face.

Or, he thought to himself, beginning to feel quite contented, I could sit here and watch her sleep.


	17. Reminisce

**Chapter Seventeen: Reminisce**

Sire and Childe

There was a button in her shirt that she simply could not get undone. The buttonhole was too small, and when she tried ripping it, the fabric didn't even crease. Rain began to patter on a surface above her head. It sounded metallic, and yet not quite. A pair of scissors appeared in her hand and she opened them up, sliding their gaping sharpness underneath the button in an attempt to cut the problem away, but to no avail; it was like trying to use plastic to dig through rock. She threw the useless tool aside in frustration, turning her gaze on the offensive little circle, flicking it with one nail. It looked so ordinary.

"I don't know what to do with you," she murmured.

A well-known pair of hands drifted into her line of sight, grasping the button and sliding it through the hole as though it had never offered any resistance whatsoever, bringing the white fabric of the shirt to the side, fingers sliding over her waist as the owner of them stepped close to her.

She drew in his scent, letting it go to her head. She looked into his eyes. They were beautiful, she noticed, but then again, she had already decided that.

"I don't know what to do with you," he said.

She smiled, about to kiss him, when she woke.

The sound of rain morphed into that of the keys of a piano being struck in such a rapid succession that it seemed more plausible the piece of music was being conducted by three players, and not just the one. But she knew it was just the one. There was a new scent, perceivable only by the outside mingling itself with the bass notes of the house itself.

The elusive host had deigned to appear.

She turned over, noting that the spot next to her in the bed was vacant of anything but the power to produce a twitch in her chest. She scooted to the edge of the bed, placing her feet on the floor and running her hands through her tangled locks. She got dressed, accompanied by the melody still being played, but as she began to ascend the stairs, it switched to a tune drizzled through with melancholy. It was like the ebb and flow of a tide; washing away the sand covering the loneliness she hadn't even noticed was making itself a habitat in her bosom.

She ran her hand along the wall, bearing the marks – in the shape of broad brushstrokes located by the top step of the stairs – of someone's mercifully abandoned intentions of painting it a dull shade of brown.

She stopped in the doorway of a large room on the top floor, from where streamed the rising and falling of notes. Her eyes widened in slight awe as everywhere were sheets of music. They littered the floor, which was stripped of carpet and showed naked, graying boards, and they papered every inch of the walls and covered the window panes.

Candlelight illuminated them in such an ancient way that she felt as though she had been transported back in time; the candles where situated atop the impressive grand piano – placed in the middle of the room – countless, all of them crimson. Their wax dripped down the side of the black lacquered instrument, creating dark puddles on the floor beneath, as though the music was its lover and the ecstasy its presence provoked being powerful enough to make it bleed.

The vampire seated, with his fingers nimbly moving across the keys, didn't acknowledge her, but she could feel him take her in, as he was absorbing the immaculate harmony he was creating. It was different than a look signaling his noticing her, or words bidding her entrance, it was a force that took her by the hand and pulled her closer.

He was leaning forward, black tresses of hair hanging before his face. She could tell he was tall, with nicely sculpted shoulders and torso and most probably arms, but she wasn't prepared for the shock of his gaze once he raised it to meet hers. His eyes were bluer than Spike's, but in an unidentifiable way. His face was attractive, and when he smiled at her as the last notes of the melody rang forlornly through the air, she felt what a welcome intrusion she was. He brought his hands into his lap, lifting his foot off the pedal it had been resting on, and seemingly waiting for her to speak.

"That was incredible," she finally said.

His smile broadened.

"I wrote it for a girl I'm yet to have the pleasure of knowing," he informed. "Tell me your name and I'll know what title it should carry."

She smiled a little. His British was posh and she could tell his manners were miles down the road from where Spike's had grown roots.

"Buffy," she humored him.

His smile turned into a smirk as he rose.

He was tall.

"Zachariah," he introduced himself.

"Though he prefers Zack," Spike's voice made Buffy turn her head to the doorway as he strolled through it. "I went through hell getting these for you," he added, dangling two bags of blood from one hooked finger, "so gratitude would become you."

She licked her lips, the previously ignored hunger becoming impossible to ignore any longer.

"Thanks," she said, though she was still suffering the sting of his previous absence, and the word lacked much enthusiasm.

He cocked an eyebrow.

"Guess we'll save it for later," he muttered, making her want to ask him exactly where he had been and exactly what hell he had gone through to get her dinner.

Before she could, however, he turned his gaze in Zack's.

"You do realize that you've moved well beyond obsession with this hobby of yours," he remarked, casting a glance on the walls.

"Ah, but I would phrase it as a hobby having been turned into a passion having transformed into a calling of the most intimate of natures," Zack retorted.

"Let's not have the same tedious discussion," Spike sighed; then he smiled widely, Zack returning it. "It's bloody good to see you."

"Likewise," Zack assured. "Especially when you come bearing Americans."

"Happen often?" Buffy interjected; Zack's eyes already in hers.

"Every other visit," he shrugged. "He knows how I appreciate a taste of the wild."

Buffy smirked.

"And Britain is... safe?" she asked.

"Perhaps not safe as much as predictable."

"Well, I'm glad not to disappoint, then," she said. "Predictable is not one of my vices. Is it, Spike?"

Spike smiled briefly, handing her the blood. She accepted it.

"Got a cup?" she asked Zack.

Fifteen minutes later they were stepping inside the nearest situated pub – which was near indeed – and filled with patrons sipping the nectar Spike was craving.

"Lager," he demanded, the female bartender keeping her gaze in his a moment longer than necessary before smiling a crooked smile.

"Sure," she said, turning around to service him with a keen efficiency, which was extremely nice to witness, though his witnessing it was cut short by the sensation of Buffy's gaze burning a hole in his neck.

He attempted to shake it off, but it didn't work, and he moved his head to look at her. Only she was staring intently at the candle before her, smiling when Zack said something, nodding in agreement. Spike rolled his eyes at her so obviously feigned nonchalance, grabbing the large, and deliciously cool glass having been set before him, paying the prettiness on the other side of the counter before walking up to the table, which Zack was just leaving in favor of the bar.

Spike had a seat opposite Buffy, who glanced up at him, and then away.

"Alright," he sighed. "What're you having?"

He began to rise, but she shook her head, saying:

"No, no. Zack's getting it. Sit."

He slowly did as she instructed, observing her for a moment. She eyed him back, looking both annoyed and mournful, as though he had hurt her. He tilted his head to one side, wanting her to voice her thoughts instead of just glaring them out at him. Then her brow smoothed itself out, and she put her elbows on the table, leaning forward a little, having a look around.

"So," she said. "Come here often?"

He shrugged, taking a swig of beer and swallowing.

"I bet you do, whenever you're in town," she stated. "How often _are_ you in town?"

He gave her a look, which he hoped spoke volumes of how uninterested he was in keeping up this topic, but a small smile curling her lips was all that the look seemed to produce, and since he didn't know quite what to do with it, he simply kept his mouth shut.

"Where did you grow up?" she asked, and now he just knew she was fishing for a reaction. "Did you have any siblings?" she pushed, though he was certain his eyes could be showing nothing but the warning he had placed in them. "Were your parents together? I always figured you were an orphan. That that was what drove you to... well, you know. What _was_ it that made you choose Drusilla?"

He slammed the beer down on the table, but her gaze didn't leave his for a moment.

A lime green drink chose to, in that moment, finish its journey through the room in the hand of Zack and land before Buffy, who looked up at him with a bright smile, her eyes in his as he took the seat to her left.

"I was just having a pretty useless monologue with Spike, and I'm thinking of starting one up with you instead," she said.

"Was the scoundrel not interested in turning it into a dialogue, then?" She shook her head. "My word, Spike! Where have your manners gone?"

"So he has had them?"

"Once upon a long time ago."

"Really? I wonder what would've made him lose them."

"I think that's about enough of that," Spike interrupted. "Zack, I heard somewhere that your first childe preferred chicken blood to human blood," he added, Zack's eyes widening.

"Did you ever cure that fear of heights?" Zack retorted.

Spike stared at him, and Buffy concluded Zack was in trouble.

"Ever cure that streak of vanity?" he shot, adding conspiratorially to Buffy: "He has a portrait painted of him every year to see if he's actually aging."

Buffy giggled, suppressing it at the narrowing eyes of Zack.

"You still keep a journal?" he asked, Spike's eyes growing round again. "I bet you there's some poetry in there, if you can find it," Zack said to Buffy just as Spike dove for him. "It's not a habit one easily shakes," he got out as Spike's arms snaked around his throat in a headlock.

Buffy smirked.

"_Alright_. Calm down now. You'll get us thrown out of here."

Zack held his hands up in an offering of peace and Spike reluctantly let go. Zack straightened himself out, sliding closer to Buffy and taking her hand, kissing its fingers softly.

Spike ignored the crackling urge to knock the other off his chair, looking away as Zack softly cooed:

"My heroine."

Buffy smiled.

**x**

"You did _not_," Buffy exclaimed, staring from one to the other.

"Yes, we did. And the worst of it is that nothing _whatsoever_ came of it," Zack replied.

It took another few moments before they all burst out laughing, Buffy watching the earnest smile on Spike's face. It remained as he turned his eyes in hers.

"Zack enjoys reminiscing," he said.

"And you don't?" she inquired.

"When there's something worth remembering," he answered.

"And what is worth remembering?" she wondered, leaning forward and resting her chin in one hand.

He observed her, and she couldn't make out the look in his eyes.

"Zachariah," he said. "What's worth remembering?"

Zack smirked.

"How about the first time we met?" he offered, turning to Buffy as he continued: "I was courting a heart-breakingly beautiful woman – not as appealing as you, but she had me twined around her little finger and I was absolutely determined to sire her." Buffy felt her eyebrows rise. "Enter Spike. He snatched her away from me, the devil. His intentions not as honorable, I might add. She was found floating in the Thames. He told me that he wanted to save me from making a dire mistake. Turned out she had strong ties to the foremost vampire hunter of the time - which could have been a true nuisance. What could I do but bow to the wisdom?"

"As far as I recall, what you did apart from the bowing to the wisdom, was kick my un-royal ass," Spike remarked. "Or try to," he added with a smirk.

Buffy fidgeted slightly in her chair, the thought of a half-naked body carried on the tow of the wide river, white and bloated, made her feel like the wood beneath her had sprouted twigs digging into her back.

"Sounds like quite the foundation for a friendship," she commented, not able to withhold the surly note in her voice.

Zack and Spike exchanged a glance - which she didn't enjoy - before Zack locked his gaze with hers, smiling disarmingly.

"It's lasted this long," he said.

"I suppose the Thames is a perfect place to dump a body," she bit, keeping her gaze away from Spike. "Many of them just disappear, don't they?"

"Bloody right, they do," Spike said, getting her eyes in his and holding them. "Easier than digging graves, 'specially in this day and age, where people go away all the time, for no apparent reason, and them turning into smoke is easier to accept than a freshly dug grave and a recovered corpse."

She clenched her fists together, wanting to rip up a hurt as big as his callousness had caused in her. To make him see the errors of his absolutely baffling insensitivity and unyielding conceit. For the first time since she had stepped onto that cursed porch of the Inn she saw something in him that stirred that old hatred for him, making it braid itself along her spine, sending unpleasant goose bumps over her back and shoulders.

"Buffy has a case of high morals," he now remarked, none the wiser and ironic enough for it to slap her across the face.

"Surely not," Zack disagreed. "No higher than most's. You must forgive us," he added, and his expression began to work its way into the blackness beneath her breast, diluting it steadily until she began to perceive an ever-expanding sense of calm. "We have lived this life for much too long. And you come from the light..." He smiled softly. "Of course the shadows will not easily embrace you."

She returned his smile tentatively, realizing that he was holding her hand again, stroking it gently with one thumb. There was something hypnotic in that small movement, and soon she had nearly forgotten what had caused such rage in her in the first place. She decided to focus on something which instead had caught her intrigue.

"Did you say vampire hunter before?" she asked.

"Ah, yes," he nodded, releasing her hand and taking a mouthful of wine before he continued: "Short lived society of mortals who attempted to carry on the tradition set by the infamous Stoker in creating Van Helsing, and hunt vampires by day to 'catch them where they slept'."

Spike smirked.

"It didn't work out for them," he interjected.

She still wanted to hit him, she realized. His smug acceptance of this, as he sat perfectly relaxed in his chair, made a small flame of her fury still flicker within her, refusing to die out completely.

"Well," Zack said, "you know we're not as prone to coffins as people make us out to be, not even way back when the piece of sacrilegious fiction was published. Stumbling in on a vampire nest that will scent the presence of humans within two seconds of their entering turned out to carry more than a little death and the mere mortals couldn't quite cope with sending brother after brother to face his doom, so they gave it up. There may have been a whisper of a girl somewhere in the world dusting more vampires in one night than they could ever even hope to dust in a year, and this may have had something to do with their clean getaway."

Buffy wasn't sure if it was appropriate to smile. Half of her mouth tugged upward, while the other half wanted to point disapprovingly downward.

"When you say 'short-lived'...?" she asked instead.

"They hung around for a few decades or so, made their little dent in history, at least the paranormal one, but my God, were they aggravating!" Zack exclaimed. "Remember that time we went to see the Dismal twins in York and that... I forget his name..."

"Byrnes," Spike helped.

"Yes! Byrnes! True carnivore of a man, and quite to my taste as that, but absolutely blinded by ambition! Spike and I got him trapped in an old church, thinking we would have some fun with him, since we'd damn well earned it, having him trail us all the way from London and for what? He was deluded enough to think that he could take us out?"

"In our sleep," Spike added with another smirk, swallowing the last of his beer.

"We wished to set him straight. We weren't even certain we were going to drain him, we just wanted to teach him a lesson, though he was in need of several."

"You always were the best tutor," Spike smiled.

"No, no, my good man. You always were."

"I insist you were."

"Oh, well, if you insist," Zack smirked, bowing his head.

"What kind of tutor?" Buffy asked, unsure of wanting to hear the answer.

"_You_ I would teach the arts of our race, my dear," Zack replied. "And all the power that comes with them."

"He is an expert," Spike said casually. "He's been around for a very long time. He knows things."

"Don't be modest on my account - I know people too," Zack cut in, Spike smiling. "And places and their history."

"Any questions you'd want an answer to," Spike said, pointing to Zack as though he was an encyclopedia open to the first page.

"Fine," she said, getting to her feet. "Let's go."

"Go where?" Spike asked.

"Out to test the tutor."


	18. Rip

**Chapter Eighteen: Rip**

Sire and Childe

Spike listened to Zack speak of London as the epitome of a wondrous, invigorating changeling; every minute evolving it into something new, every hour seeing it pull a different face, every day the testimony to its pursuit of what could only be summarized with one word - eternity.

"The city is the glass and concrete soul of what all our kin is striving for: to see our own immortality as a gift; a fact which two hundred years of existing may obscure. It becomes a curse for those who cannot let go; those who watch their era die and give way for new views and beliefs in bitterness, without realizing that - if embraced - change will ultimately occur within them as well."

Spike kept the smile down. He had forgotten how smooth the man could be, when he wanted to. He seemed to have taken a fancy to the slayer, or Spike was sure he wouldn't lay it on quite so thick or with quite so much conviction.

"I'm totally pro-change," Buffy replied. "If it isn't forced," she continued. "Say a person wants to change, and has the potential to change, but won't, because they don't know how - then I say giving pointers is a good thing. Might even be necessary. At least to make them understand that it's possible and that they shouldn't just discard it because they're uber-stubborn or simply too stupid to get how great things could be if they would." She paused, and Spike got the feeling she had let her mouth run away with her. He narrowed his eyes slightly, but with the next breath she added: "But if a person knows who they are and feel no need to evolve into something that might as well be a lie, it doesn't mean the world around them will affect them badly. They just might be strong enough to handle it as they are. And if they think they can, you know, then leave it. I mean, if it's a mistake, they'll learn from it. If it isn't, you'll regret pushing them away for nothing."

Spike could see –by the curve of Zack's cheek – that the other was smiling. Approvingly, no doubt. If there was one thing Zack absolutely adored, it was voiced opinions. He collected them like marbles, and kept them in every pocket of his mind, pulling one out when it was least expected and showing it to all the world, no matter how dated it might be or how faded its former glory.

Spike rolled his eyes, refraining from commenting on what had been said, but feeling wonderment at it all the same. He wanted to tap her on the shoulder and have her meet his gaze, thinking this might help in pinpointing exactly what her words had brushed at, had knocked over within him.

But what he had to do was the opposite: he needed to melt into the background and give them room to speak freely. He could tell Buffy was intrigued by the older vampire, and all it would take was for that intrigue to spark into curiosity. Once she was delving into the mysteries of a world she had – up until now – foresworn, she would determine Zack the truest informant, and she would choose him; because she would want to know of her heritage. It was inevitable.

They strolled through Regent's Park and Zack told the story of the lonely vampiress who, in the late nineteenth century, had visited the park, night after night, in search of a lover. She had left a bloodied trail after every excursion, but no bodies were ever found. The art of forensics had still been in its cradle, the police didn't know what to do with themselves, the court was furious and the public stomping impatiently for retribution.

"Lucinda," Zack sighed, shaking his head. "Foolish, selfish. She was a child when she was turned, nine years old, and her sire didn't know how to control her, how to ensure that she understood the code. I suppose what she did, she did out of loneliness. But to do it so publicly, for all to gawk at, for it to become a mystery? Mysteries are dangerous conceptions, and once born, they have a talent for outgrowing even the minds of the greatest thinkers. _Of_ _course_ they will draw attention to themselves. And this was like no other mystery. Since Jack the Ripper colored the streets with the blood of prostitutes, a truly great crime had been lacking. Now, here was one, seemingly even greater."

"What happened?" Buffy asked.

"Her sire hunted her down, and killed her."

Buffy stared at him.

"It had to be done," Zack said at her expression. "We cannot allow the code to be broken."

"And what is the code, exactly?"

Zack smiled at her, then turned to Spike.

"Do you want to tell her?" he asked.

Spike met Buffy's eyes as she turned partially around as well, then he shrugged.

"Ever wonder why we're not common knowledge?" he asked. "When we're stronger, faster, helluva lot smarter than the mortal race?"

"I could argue with you," she said with a slight smile and he gave her a look.

"Because the code states," Zack jumped in, "that the power does not belong to us for that purpose, and that the balance must be kept, as it always has been, for the calamity of a tipped scale would surely bring an end to this world."

"And every last vampire on the whole planet sticks to this code?" she asked, unconvinced.

"Nope," Spike smirked. "But the ones who try to act on their rebellious nature are quickly taken care of. And the rebels know that. They don't stand a chance."

"What do the rebels want?"

"War," Zack replied matter-of-factly. "Death. Destruction. World domination. Humanity in shackles."

"Oh, that," Buffy said, then she smiled. "Weird. I've never heard about it before," she added.

Spike huffed.

"Ever bothered to ask the right questions before?" he shot, making her look at him again, before she took her eyes out of his in silent reply to the query.

**x**

They reached the Heath, walking up a footpath lined with trees on one side and the dark facades of a long row of houses on the other. Zack chatted with her about her experiences of London so far, and she wondered at the small talk, until they finally reached the top of a long uphill climb and he made a theatrical swoop with one arm at the spectacular view of the city, glittering like a bejeweled carpet in moonlight, spread out by proud hands at their feet. Had she turned around during their striving to reach this spot, she would have undoubtedly ruined the breathtaking first impression, and she smiled her thanks at Zack for keeping her so duly occupied.

It was pitch black; no lamps to light the way or provide imaginary safety nets for lone wanderers, but Buffy enjoyed it all the more because of it. It was perfectly still, and the air was crystal clear, and the blackness seemed nothing but a fitting contrast to the lights shining their brightness in the distance.

Benches stood placed strategically in the grass and she stepped off the asphalted path to have a seat on one of them. She could feel Spike's eyes on her, and then the sensation went away as she heard him walk in the opposite direction and soon the grass sighed its welcome as he lay down on it. She ached to join him, but was suddenly scared of a rebuff and simply lingered where she was. Zack came up and sat down next to her. They were quiet for a while.

"He didn't really write poetry, did he?" she finally inquired, making Zack smirk.

"I'm afraid he did. When he was younger."

"How much younger?"

"A hundred-and-twenty-five years. Give or take."

Her eyebrows rose, but she smiled a little.

"How old was he when he was turned?" she asked.

"I'm not certain, but I would guess around twenty-five," he replied.

"I can't remember why I chose it," she mumbled, drifting out of the conversation and into her own musings. "His blood. It was like it was already rushing through me, you know?" Zack had turned solemn, watching her face. "Like it belonged with me," she finished quietly.

She hadn't been able to voice this thought, this sensation; but now that it was clad in words it was all the more apparent, and the colors of that night came back in bright relay.

She rested her gaze in Zack's for a long minute, then rose to her feet and crossed the path to where Spike was splayed out, hands beneath head, in the grass. She stretched out beside him, getting the flaring leather of the duster out of the way before she did so and thinking that she would never be able to touch or scent that fabric again without feeling cold and hot and completely mixed up.

She rested her head back, looking up at the enormous slice of the universe above them. It was like floating through space, the sky was so big.

"Wow," she said. He didn't say anything. She let out a small sigh before she smiled to herself, asking: "So, what's worth remembering?"

There was a long silence.

"The moments you can't forget," he answered at last. "Even if you want to," he added in a mutter.

"Glad to know I'm worth remembering," she said, turning her head to look at him and being slightly startled when she found he was already looking at her. "Spike..." she began, but he sat up, cutting the sentence short.

"So, what'd you think about Zack?" he asked.

"I think he's hot," she replied, looking up at the stars again. "I'd have parental advisory vampire sex with him any day of the week," she added. "You can watch if you want. Or maybe that's not part of it."

"Beg your pardon?"

She glared at him, sitting up as well, quite angry at his play at innocence.

"Well, the pimp usually gets to watch the whore sleep with the customers, right? If he's twisted enough."

"What are you bloody well on about?"

He was raising his voice, and with that small show of offense he jerked her out of the calm she had been keeping all night, and threw her right into the blaze of hurt and aggravation she had tried so hard to avoid. She didn't want to have this argument with him because she could only see one outcome. But now, here it was. As unavoidable as autumn following summer.

"Don't patronize me, please; I may not be as well-traveled or well-experienced or whatever as you, but I'm not naive, and I'm not an idiot."

"All very well, but what does that have to do with..."

"Because you're trying to pawn me off on Zack like I'm up for trade or something," she exclaimed, getting to her feet. He did the same, shaking his head at her as he faced her. "Don't deny it," she said; the warning in her tone so heavy it even surprised her. "Why can't you...?" she trailed off, the throbbing in her chest intensifying at the absence of emotion on his face. "Why can't you just accept me?" she finished, her voice breaking.

He furrowed his brow.

"You're better off with him," he said.

"Don't try and make yourself into something you're not, don't make _this_ into something it's not." He looked questioning and she ground her teeth together. "It wasn't for me. None of it's for me."

"Bloody hell! Was this not expected? Did I not _say_ we wouldn't exactly backpack through Europe together? Have I not made myself abundantly sodding clear on that point?"

They took each other in for a long moment.

"I'm your childe." She paused. "No, still sounds weird out loud." Then continued: "You can't ignore that. I'm..."

"No," he shook his head. "I'm not bloody bound to you like this. The way you bleeding well are. Hating everything _I_ am. _Still_. After bloody everything. Or perhaps _more_ so now, you just haven't realized it yet." She furrowed her brow, but he carried on. "You want to know why I can't accept you? Because _you_ refuse to accept that your _life_ is _over_. That your existence is different. That _you're_ a part of _me_, not the other bloody way around. And all of your fighting it is just gonna make it bleeding tear you apart." He observed her for a drawn out moment, before he said: "Hunt with me."

She rested her eyes in his. He looked more than encouraging, he looked enticing, tempting. The thought was brilliant in her mind, of running with him, beside him. But she shied away from it, shaking her head barely noticeably.

"Fine. Have it your way. But don't act so sodding self-righteous about it."

"What's with all the show, then? Why the hell did you even bring Zack into the middle of this? You think it'd be that easy?"

"No, more like fervently hoped," he bit off. "_You_ wouldn't listen to me. And you sure wouldn't leave on your own," he barked. "This is an _incentive_."

She felt her mouth gape in astonishment.

"I don't think so," she said, the words filling her with a certainty that was absolutely new, but there nonetheless.

"Oh, and what do you think?" he asked.

"I think you're testing me," she replied.

"And why would I do that?"

"To see how far you can push me before I fall off a cliff or stumble into traffic or find some other, more original way of leaving you," she answered. His eyebrows rose high at that statement, and a wide smile spread on his lips, but it died away as she slowly added : "It's working."

She wasn't sure that he was even aware of his expression changing, but his face turned stony, his eyes resting in hers for a stretched out moment.

"That's..." he murmured, finishing softly, "gratifying."

She smiled the shadow of a smile, bitterness rising in her mouth.

"You'd miss me," she said.

He stared at her, about to reply when Zack stopped in front of them, his eyes focused on something at the bottom of the hill.

Buffy heard them the next second: voices carried on the wind.

Zack's eyes gleamed yellow as he looked at the other two vampires.

"Coming?" he asked before moving ahead, his form disappearing in a blur as he sped out of sight.

Spike began to walk past her, Buffy placing a hand on his arm, stopping him. He rested his gaze in hers, and slowly she took her hand away, numbness spreading as she watched him follow in the footsteps of his friend.

Her first impulse was to cry, but it felt too pathetic, and so she made way for enraged disappointment. Standing still for a few moments she allowed the wind to do as it wished, splaying soft fingers through her blonde locks and helping to further dry the wetness in her eyes before she began to make her way back to the apartment.

She remembered the streets they had walked with ease, and found herself standing before the front door in less than half an hour. She retrieved the key, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

In lack of inspiration she sat down in the middle of the bedroom, on the carpet, and waited.

She had no idea what to do with the fury. It was like walls snapping into place within her, to crumble in the next moment, making way for new ones. How she would deal with him all depended on which moment he saw fit to show his face. She did know this: she was done simply taking it any way he would give it. She couldn't let him treat her like something that didn't matter, something that just happened to be there, something convenient. She could not.

There was a knock at the door. She didn't even consider that it might not be Spike returning, she was too focused on the strength clinging like ivy to her insides. It wouldn't be so easy for him to reach through it this time.

She got to her feet in no hurry, walking through the hallway in the same manner, reaching for the top-lock and sliding the door open. She raised her gaze slowly in order to meet that of the person outside, words beginning to take shape in her head that seemed made for the occasion, but which, in the following blink slipped away into nothingness as she met the eyes of herself.


	19. Innocence

**Chapter Nineteen: Innocence**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

Buffy found herself holding her breath as the door slid open, her pulse a distant drum in her ears, her skin tingling with anticipation. She didn't know who would be opening the door, or if the person they were looking for would even be there, but as the form of her own body placed itself in the doorway she realized she hadn't been prepared for the shock.

It was a vampire meeting her gaze; a vampire wearing her face and a dated hairdo and clothes she hadn't seen in years.

A seventeen year old her.

That was what shook her the most. Not the pallor of her skin, or the slightly haunted look in her eyes, but the youth of her appearance. She had still been innocent at this time of her life, hadn't she? Over the past few years she had come to think of all those hours she had spent with Angel as something of a dream, where adulthood had yet to fully force itself upon her with all its insights. And yet, here stood a being that looked weary and questioning, but not exactly astonished at this turn of events.

Her eyes switched to meet Spike's, and Buffy registered how absolutely defeated she looked. Then her brow creased, her eyes narrowed and she seemed to be observing him minutely before she turned her gaze back in Buffy's.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Is that how my voice sounds? Buffy thought to herself, letting it go the next moment, the seriousness in her tone reflecting itself in her expression as she replied:

"We need to talk."

The vampiress' gaze drifted over what seemed like every pore of the Slayer's face, silently taking her in, clearly struggling to fit the pieces together, even when most of the puzzle was missing, and then replying:

"So talk."

"Better fit for indoors," Spike said and the vampiress turned her eyes back in his.

Buffy could sense delicate confusion on the other, but the way she looked at Spike was something entirely different, something curious and yet withdrawn, as though she could see a light at the end of a long tunnel, but was scared of what might be hidden within it if she were to move forward and let it ensconce her – her salvation or, more likely, her doom.

She contemplated the Slayer and the vampire before taking a step out of the way. Buffy proceeded inside, whereas Spike was unable to.

"Need more than a gesture here," he said.

"Come in," the vampiress murmured, her eyes following him as he walked past her and went into the bedroom.

Buffy was already there, taking in the space skeptically.

"You're domestic skills have improved somewhat," she commented and he smirked.

The vampiress stopped in the doorway, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Her eyebrows were raised. Her patience was waning. Buffy read these signs with one look and decided it was better to cut to the chase, or rather, the meat of the tale they had to tell. It took no more than three minutes, but Buffy felt as though her mouth couldn't shut up, like her tongue was a traitor that was delivering blow after blow of unnecessary information. When she was at last finished with detailing their reason for coming, the vampiress said nothing; merely entered the room, walking up to the bed, sinking down on it.

"I'm tired," she murmured.

"Buffy," Buffy said, the strangeness of uttering the name the way she had uttered Xander's and Willow's and Spike's so many times before – with authority – made it roll around in her mouth long after it had been spoken out loud.

The vampiress met her gaze slowly, her look saying that she didn't need to be pushed any closer to the edge right now. She would tumble over it. Perhaps even gladly. And there was no telling what she would do once she hit what lay beneath it. She might smash against rocks, drown in the waves, struggle to live, or simply not care anymore.

Buffy swallowed.

"There's no time," she said quietly.

"There's a little time," Spike protested behind her and she turned her head to him.

His gaze was meaningful.

"A little," she agreed.

"That's all I need," the vampiress said, lying down on the bed.

Buffy hesitated, feeling she wanted to take a step forward, place a hand on the other's shoulder; lend comfort which she had no idea where to draw from. It was odd to look at the vampiress as a stranger, because she wasn't; and still she was unbelievably removed from anything Buffy had ever known of herself. The capabilities, desires, ideas that moved through the other's mind were ones Buffy couldn't even imagine. Except for when they were copied perfectly into her head, of course.

As though in response to this, Spike's hand placed itself lightly against the small of her back, ushering her out of the room and closing the door behind them. His fingers didn't linger for long, but they still reached through the clay of her thoughts and she met his gaze as they faced each other in the narrow hallway.

"She doesn't look good," she mumbled.

"Needs a few minutes to digest it, is all."

She had no comment to make.

He gestured to the stairs and she headed up to them, ascending them in front of him, unable to mask her incredulity at this serving as anything other than a rat's nest. He observed her patiently, and finally it got the better of her.

"Who _lives _here?" she asked.

He smirked, stepping onto the landing of the second floor and following her through a doorway lacking a door, bringing them into the floor's only room. Its walls and every window were covered in black paint; as was the ceiling, in the middle of which hung an absolutely fantastic crystal chandelier; placed beneath it stood a sleigh bed, impeccably made with white linen, their winter landscape stretched tight and flat. She wondered if they were to be spotted with blood, like the canvas of a madman waiting for its deathly subject.

"We should leave in an hour, if we're gonna make the flight," Spike said. "Get some rest."

"I slept on the way over," she replied. "I thought I'd need it. Thought we'd have to deal with animal cries of pain and rage, confrontations, accusations, not this... total anti-climax."

He smiled, nodding to the bed and she, despite the morbid imagery which had so recently drawn pictures in her mind, couldn't resist the outlook of distorting those perfectly smooth sheets. She sprawled herself across them, looking up at him where he stood by her head. He was different upside down. Taller. She rolled over onto her stomach to get him into the right perspective again.

She'd never thought about his height before. He just was – he wasn't tall or short. He was strong, and fast, and conniving, smart, even, when he chose to be. But he wasn't much more than that. Not exactly. He smoked. She couldn't stand the smell of it.

"Did you sleep?" she asked him.

He eyed her for a moment; then shrugged dismissively, sliding the duster off his shoulders and hanging it over the curved headboard. She felt inexplicable, prickly goose bumps spread at the nape of her neck and cleared her throat, for lack of anything better to do.

"We didn't do this when we found the place," he said, looking above at the darkened ceiling. "It was like this. Even had the posh lighting. Bed's new, though," he added, resting a hand on the duster, his eyes meeting hers.

"Well... it's interesting," she tried and he smirked.

"No, it isn't," he said. "Sorry this is all I can offer of London," he added.

She smiled again, looking away from him.

"That's okay," she discarded his apology. "Why isn't she... upset?" she mumbled, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her back against the foot board. "She barely reacted. Is that...?"

She trailed off, watching him as he had a seat on the other side of the large bed. It was a desert of pristine white parting them, and yet he somehow felt too close. As though the sheets were really waiting for a different distortion, refusing to move until they were entangled in limbs that were coming alive at last. She straightened her posture slightly, trying to produce a need to get herself away, wanting that caution she had become so familiar with thanks to him to be present once more.

It didn't work.

"Maybe," he now said in response to her former query, "it's got something to do with Spike."

"Maybe," she nodded. "His scent's still all over her; she can't have left him too long ago."

His eyebrows rose. She didn't pick up on it at first, but when she did she grew flustered in a second.

"It's a stand-out-ish kind of scent. Recognizable, I mean. Because I've had the _displeasure_ of having to learn to... _What_?"

He smirked.

"Did I say anything?"

She gave him a look, forcing her heart not to beat too harshly in her chest.

She kept losing her cool and she cursed those dreams for the number they had done on her, messing with things that needed to not be messed with, not even to be shifted slightly, not even glanced at.

She turned her eyes away from him, and upward, admiring the soft light of the grandness above their heads as it caught in the crystals and made them shimmer. They looked like icicles hanging right out of an infinite sky. She thought the room should have felt oppressive, but it didn't.

"What parts of London would you have shown me, then?" she asked, finding it too tricky to stay silent, moving her head to meet his gaze again.

"The tourists go to Piccadilly and Covent Garden and take pictures of statues..."

"But I asked where _you'd_ take _me_," she interrupted softly, oddly intrigued to find out.

He tilted his head a little to one side; then replied:

"Everywhere else."

A tentative smile spread on her lips before she looked away from him, suddenly self-conscious and utterly lost as to why.

"Is it weird to be back here?" she asked. "Must have a lot of memories."

He nodded.

"But it's not weird," he said. "Uncomfortable, more like."

She smiled another smile, observing him.

"Why?" she inquired.

"Lot of memories," he replied, her smile widening.

"Why would they make you uncomfortable?" she wondered.

He rested his eyes in hers and she felt like he was about to actually reply when he suddenly smiled slightly, giving a shrug.

"What's upstairs?" she asked instead.

"A piano."

"You play?"

"No," he smirked. "But Zack does."

"Who's Zack?"

"A friend."

Her eyebrows showed her incomprehension.

"I do have friends," he insisted and she smiled the next moment.

"Doubt it," she said, though she took some perverse pleasure in seeing a grin spread on his mouth, questioning if she had ever been the cause of one before.

She cleared her throat again, rising to her feet.

"We should go down," she said and he nodded.

She walked on ahead, hearing the leather of the duster slide back into place across his shoulders and then the sound of his feet as they followed in her footsteps.

**x**

She was standing by one of the windows when they re-entered the room. Her slim frame was rigid, her expression grief-stricken, painted a soft yellow from the light outside. She turned to face them as they entered, and Spike marveled at her strength.

It was different from the power of the S layer, which was like a warm aura around the frame of the person standing next to him, while the vampiress' was cool, and spread itself through the room as a warning, and a challenge, to anyone of her kin apt to take her on.

He knew the Slayer couldn't feel it.

The vampiress fastened her gaze in his and he understood that his counterpart had done her some serious damage. Her grief wasn't at what lay ahead, but what was to be left behind.

"What's going to happen?" she more or less demanded.

It wasn't a puny need to be comforted; it was a determination to see whatever it was through. He recognized it instantly.

"We have to go back to Sunnydale."

"Do you know how much time we have?"

"No, Giles hasn't been able to determine that," Buffy answered.

"Right," the vampiress smiled sadly.

"Where is he?" Spike asked; her eyes in his instantly.

"Hunting," she replied; the disapproval and disgust which rose in her eyes being harsh enough to make him frown.

At his side, Buffy did the same.


	20. Splinters

I want to express my thanks to nichbuket and cordykitten. Sending you all my love and my hopes that you will enjoy the following!

x's

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**Chapter Twenty: Splinters**

Sire and Childe

The handbag was nothing but a blur, but its impacts with his face as its owner swung it over and over at his head were quite literal. And painful. He tried to divert them with his hands, but it did little good as the young woman merely changed tactics and began aggressively pounding him in the ribcage. Then she let out a loud yelp, turned and ran for her life. Spike shook his head violently to clear it, leaning forward on his knees, his tongue licking at the blood seeping out from a crack in his lower lip.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, glancing over at Zack, who let the body he had in his arms slowly slip to the ground at his feet before turning to the other. "Did you see that?" he added. "Bloody hell," he repeated, straightening up.

Then he laughed, shaking his head again.

Zack observed him in silence before nodding to the dying girl at his feet. Spike glanced at her, saw the dirt which had smeared one of her cheeks, her rumpled shirt, and suddenly felt loathing for her pathetic end, loosing whatever appetite he might have had, declining the offer by turning away from the scene, looking up the slope leading to the spot where he had left Buffy.

It was empty.

The sound of the body dragging across the grass as Zack brought the girl over to a thick line of bushes somehow irked the other vampire, making him feel the need to grab her feet and lift her up to make it stop. But Zack disappeared out of sight before he could do anything, emerging a moment later with a wad of cash. A robbery would make the crime seem less random, though Spike knew the police had a whole special branch dealing with "suspect killings". He smirked. They were so bloody clueless. Zack extended half the pink and purple bills to him, but he shook his head. Wasn't his kill, wasn't his loot. Zack shrugged and pocketed the money as they headed across the lawn to the foot path.

"You still haven't fully explained yourself," Zack said.

Spike cocked an eyebrow.

"Wasn't all that hungry," he replied. "Besides, I think she was carrying around rocks in that bag, my head feels like it's about to buggering explode."

"Not about that," Zack said impatiently.

"What? _Buffy_?" he asked, disbelieving.

"Yes, Buffy. Deliciously stubborn, tragically disillusioned little Buffy." Zack smirked at Spike's huff. "Why would you ever want to rid yourself of that?"

"I don't find her as entertaining as you do," Spike muttered.

"Well, I'll take her," Zack stated.

Spike nearly glared at him, but deterred his gaze to the view of a deserted playground up ahead.

"If she'll have me," Zack added. "I get the strong feeling, however, that she won't, even though I'm much cleverer and handsomer than you."

"Mh," Spike grunted. "Funnier, too," he remarked dryly.

Zack smiled.

"She's right, you know?" he said. "You're not exactly being fair."

"It's not about fair," Spike replied. "It's about finding the solution for a problem." He paused; then sighed. "I never should have claimed her," he grumbled. "Everything's been bloody falling apart since I did."

Zack glanced at him, another smile on his mouth, but he kept silent.

**x**

"I should let you guys patch things up," Zack said when they reached the front door of the house.

"No," Spike disagreed. "There will be _no_ patching. She wants to go, I'll bleeding well hold a parade, wave the white handkerchief, bid her Godspeed, but I will not patch anything. There's _nothing_ to patch."

Zack narrowed his eyes.

"So, what're you saying exactly?" he asked.

Spike shot him a withering look, opening the door and heading inside. They both froze as their eyes landed on the petite form of the Slayer, standing in wait in the hallway. That she was the Slayer there was no doubt. That the blood was alive in her veins was also perfectly evident; its tantalizing, scandalizing scent swept around Spike's head and made his mouth water.

But her hair was longer, and her expression was one he hadn't seen since...

He stared at her.

"What the bloody...?" he began, being cut short by his own image stepping out of the doorway behind her, joining the charade at her side. "...hell?" he finished, blinking in bewilderment.

He looked to Zack, but he was apparently just as taken aback. Spike was about to open his mouth again when his Buffy appeared in the doorway as well, and he furrowed his brow at the weariness on her. She went away, out of sight, and he found his feet moving past the disturbing intruders and into the bedroom.

"Will you tell me what the hell is going on?" he asked, angry with her for this looming mess he couldn't quite see, but could perceive strongly enough.

"I'm not sure I want to give you the satisfaction," she replied, turning that crushed expression on him, making his insides curdle with misgivings. "You don't deserve it," she added.

He thought he would grind his teeth into dust between his jaws in exasperation, but kept it back.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm going back to Sunnydale," she answered.

His eyebrows rose, then they dipped back into a frown.

"Just like that? All it took was Scary and Scarier out there?" he asked.

She had a brief smile curl her mouth, but it faded.

"Yeah, well, they're here to take me back," she said.

"They're here to take you back," he repeated, incredulous. "What are they?"

She looked wonderingly at him.

"What they are?" she asked.

"Yes, what?"

"Dimension-hopping, end-of-the-worlds-stopping, mirror images of you and me," she replied.

He felt almost as though he was at the very highest branch of a tree, which at any moment would snap under his weight, and since he couldn't fly and it was too late to climb down, all he could do was wait. And it was such a waste of time.

"Speak so I can bleeding well understand you," he demanded.

"There are dimensions," she said, patronizingly slowly. "There's this dimension and then existing on top, or beside, or... I don't know, there's another dimension, anyway. Many dimensions. Those two are from a different one than ours. That's why she's still the Slayer, and he's... Well, he's not you," she finished.

"Cute," he muttered at the accusation he knew was hidden somewhere in that last declaration.

"They were brought here for this. To find me," she added slowly, looking away from him as she finished: "I have to be undone."

Her words took a while to sink in, and even then he couldn't make out their meaning.

"Undone?" he asked. "Undone how?"

He felt a strange possessiveness at the thought of the sodding Scoobs having found some spell or other to turn her back into her human self, make her the Slayer again, erase everything she had seen and felt and learned and have her fall in line once more. More than anything, he knew that she didn't belong with them, even if she belonged with him even less.

"There's not supposed to be a slayer vampire," she said; her eyes in his again. "It's against the laws of what made me the vampire slayer, and it's messing things up, making them fall out of place, rearranging patterns that should have been eternal..." She paused. "I have to die, in order for them to set themselves straight."

He pushed the statement away, breaking eye contact with a huff.

"The Hellmouth is waking up," she continued calmly. Coldly. Like she was already bleeding out and there was nothing she could do about it. His gaze met hers. "There's a tear between dimensions. The tear is causing its awakening and has to be closed. The only thing that can do that is my death. Well, my true death. If I don't go with them, this world, and their world, will fold in on themselves and cease to exist."

He nodded a little, mostly to himself. It made sense, even though it shouldn't. He had felt it coming. Wickedness in the form of him, bearing ill-deeds that needed to be done. Still he wondered why the image shoving its way into his mind was that of her momentary happiness a day earlier, and that dazzling smile she had granted him when in the middle of it. It dissolved in the presence of the words she had just uttered and he simply nodded again, looking back at her.

She watched him for another few moments, and then turned, walking through the doorway, being swallowed up by the shadows beyond it.

He heard her voice say something, and Zack responding, but he couldn't hear what it was.

The front door opened.

His hand was grabbing the wooden knob of the foot of the bed. He looked at his knuckles as they whitened, seeing them as though it wasn't his fingers holding on so tightly to the smooth object, like they were in a black little box on a shelf in a strangers home and he was observing them for the very first time, as a curiosity.

The door closed.

There was a dull crack when the neck of the knob snapped off, his balance shaken enough for him to take a step forward to steady himself. He studied the splinters on his palm. They were long, white and perfect, riddled on one side with the darker lacquer of the large piece of furniture. He wondered what would happen if one of the smaller ones pierced a heart. Would it crumble into dust?

He clenched his fingers into a fist before turning his hand over, letting the brokenness scatter on the floor.

**x**

She could tell they didn't know quite how to behave around her. The Slayer rested her gaze on her for long stints of time; but when she acknowledged it, the other pretended to be occupied with something else. She wondered what she thought of her. She was judging her, to be sure. And she was probably sorting through dozens of questions. Why? How? Why? And she was envious. Buffy smiled a little to herself, sinking further into the seat of the taxi taking them to Heathrow, looking at the Slayer with the smile lingering. She was envious of her answers, because she knew what it was like, and she knew the other wondered, somewhere in some unknown place. Then the smile went away, and she was left with the coiling fact that it had all been for nothing. She had been for nothing. Or perhaps there was reason even in this.

She let her gaze drift to the window, looking out through the glass at the city rushing by. She had wanted to get to know it, and now she never would. She had longed to explore it, find arches and groves that no one else had thought to find pleasure in, and fall in love with them, and never want to leave. She had seen herself in London for a long time. Zack's words had filled her with the want to experience all those wonders, to watch them happen. With Spike.

She felt herself tense at the mere thought of him, and closed her eyes for a moment, willing the sensation away.

It was over. It had been taken out of her hands, and the decision had been made for her, since she couldn't make the right one for herself.  
Spike – the other one – shifted slightly in his seat.

"Is it exactly the same?" the Slayer asked him.

She was seated next to him, both of them opposite Buffy, and he looked out the window through which the Slayer was observing the buildings and streets and traffic.

"Been a while since I was here," he admitted. "But I'd say so," he added and she smiled a very small smile, turning her head to him, their gazes locking for just a short moment, but something passed between them that was so tangible it grabbed Buffy and shook her out of her reverie.

They turned from one another, and she felt herself suddenly and intensely fascinated.

**x**

The plane was like an animal, swallowing them, keeping them safe in its belly until they reached the other side of the ocean. Not a bird, exactly; more like a prehistoric version of something resembling a bird, giant and stiff, ungraceful, with nothing but a roar in place of a twitter.

The Slayer took the window seat, Spike making a gesture, bidding Buffy enter the tightness of the row of seats before him. She complied, sitting down in between the two, feeling quite a lot like a prisoner.

"You don't have to be hawks and hover around me, you know," she pointed out as they clicked their seatbelts into place around their midriffs. "I volunteered," she reminded.

"We're not hovering," the Slayer replied. "It's too tricky to hover when you're strapped down."

"And we're not hawks," Spike added.

"Not at all," the Slayer agreed and they sat back.

Buffy looked from one to the other; then rolled her eyes.

"Great," she grumbled. "They're synchronized."

"Excuse me?" her other-dimensional twin said.

God, does my voice really sound like that? The vampiress thought, her mind shrugging it off as she began to study her nails, which were in a frightful state and made her understand why Spike liked black polish so much.

Only black polish thoughts led to soft hands thoughts, and soft hands thoughts led to soft hands all over her thoughts, and those thoughts led nowhere she wanted to go, and so she frowned, tucking her nails and fingers and hands under her legs and tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling.

Which was grey.

Which was boring.

"So," she said, turning to the Slayer, "did Spike drive into Sunnydale thinking he'd own the place by Saturday with you, too, or did it happen differently?"

The other put down the in-flight magazine she was reading and met her gaze.

"Did what happen differently?"

"How you met," Buffy answered.

The Slayer's eyebrows rose one notch, her eyes meeting the vampire's on the other side of the vampiress before she replied:

"No, it was pretty much like that."

The vampiress turned to Spike.

"Did you want to bite her the moment you saw her, or was it more like a gradual thing?" she asked, Spike smiling crookedly as the Slayer leaned forward slightly, her gaze in his again.

"No, it wasn't gradual," he said. "It was pretty instant."

The vampiress smirked, noting the sugar sweet smile the Slayer gave him before killing it off, sitting back and turning the page of the magazine with a loud rustle.

"Is it still there?" Buffy asked.

"You'd be surprised," Spike sighed.

But Buffy observed his expression – how it softened the creases near his eyes, and how there was something unyieldingly warm in the blue of his irises – and there was a loud pang of jealousy that echoed through her, leaving her with a feeling of being absolutely ridiculous.

"Why does she look different?" she asked, in reference to the Slayer, whom she thought it best to leave alone with her precious articles and smiling adds. "Her hair," she said. "It's longer."

"Well, as we figure it, our dimension is in a different timeline from this one. You're seventeen, yeah?" She nodded. "She's twenty-one," he finished.

"Oh," she said. "And... are our stories similar? I mean... If you met the same way...?"

"I suppose they are," he said.

"Except for the chip," the Slayer spoke up.

"What's that mean?" the vampiress wondered.

"It's complicated," Spike mumbled. "Wires and technical... stuff."

"It means he can't bite," the Slayer said, putting the magazine down. "He can't hurt people anymore."

"I can hurt demons, though," he tried. "I'm not completely..."

He trailed off.

"Impotent?" the Slayer offered, Spike's expression darkening considerably.

"So, you don't feed off humans?" Buffy stopped his sure-to-be scalding reply.

He met her gaze at the taken aback, and yet appreciative tone in her voice.

"Still beats up demons though," the Slayer chimed in. "Every chance he gets."

"Hey, had I not been so enjoying the thrashing of my own kind your little mates would've had a bloody lousy summer, may I remind you. Don't give me crap for what's in my nature."

"Nature? You're a paranormal being, there's nothing natural about you."

"Yeah, and look at you, miss Risen-from-the-Grave. You think that didn't take something out of you? Don't be so damn quick at passing judgment, Slayer, you don't know anything about me. You don't know..."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"What?" she asked.

The vampiress waited for a reply, but it didn't come. The intensity of his stare was enough to tell her that he wasn't amused, only something else had caught her attention, and she said:

"Risen-from-the-Grave?"

"That's not important," the Slayer said.

"That's her nicer way of saying she doesn't think we should go too much into detail," Spike clarified, then he smirked. "Though you probably knew that already."

"And what do you think?" she wondered.

"I think that whatever was alike in our worlds will never be alike again. You're not her, she's not you."

"And – I'm going to die," she filled in.

Sympathy rose in his eyes, and she didn't want it. She remembered the lack of emotion on her lover's face. Her sire. Who had had nothing to say, no protest to make, no goodbye even, just that empty look. Vacant.

"How long have you known each other, then?" she changed the subject.

"Oh, I dunno..."

"You don't?" the Slayer wondered from her corner.

He ignored her.

"Four years?" he answered the vampiress. "Four years," he confirmed to himself.

She smiled a little.

"And you're still hanging around?" she prodded.

"I have a crypt," he replied. "A home. In Sunnydale."

"You've made a home in Sunnydale?" the vampiress inquired. "Why?"

He was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable.

"Since I got the chip... It wasn't the same. I couldn't... Sunnydale treated me decent, you know? So I stayed. Simpler."

The vampiress glanced at the Slayer, who was observing him intently, looking away when she noticed the younger immortal eyeing her.

"And where's Drusilla?" the vampiress asked.

Spike clammed up completely at that question.

"Not in Sunnydale," the Slayer replied in his stead.

This produced the smallest curl of his mouth and the Slayer smirked slightly.

Buffy let the new information simmer in her brain, and it mixed well with what was already there. What their body language kept expressing. Question was if they had acted on it yet. If she knew herself as well as she thought she did, then any acting of any kind was not an option, and as directness was even less of one, it was safe to assume that nothing had happened. There was a little devil in her that longed to prod deeper, start up a game of hide-and-seek. She smiled to herself at the thought.

The Slayer had finished the magazine and now offered it to the vampiress, who, after a moment's hesitation, accepted it.

She had suddenly realized that she would be in this confined space for the next nine or so hours and she had to get through this flight without allowing herself to feel like she was making a mistake. She couldn't even glimpse the flicker of the notion that she was better off letting the whole world crumble and die around her, as long as it did so with him at her side. He didn't want her.

She closed her eyes.

She was doing the right thing.

**x**

"Where will you go?" Zack asked.

"Prague," Spike replied. "Rome. Moscow. I'll probably end up in Beijing. All the old haunts. She's somewhere familiar, I can feel it."

"And when you find her?"

"She'll forgive me," Spike said self-assuredly. "I can be persuasive enough, when I set my mind to it."

"Yes, I recall that about you."

Spike smirked.

"Need any money?"

"No," Spike shook his head.

"Right, then."

"Right, then."

"It was good seeing you. Don't take another decade to stop by."

"I won't," Spike assured, shaking the other's hand and stepping out into the night.

"By the way," Zack said, "what happened to the bed?"

Spike frowned; then remembered splinters.

"Buffy did it," he replied without hesitation.

Zack raised his eyebrows and Spike smirked, widely this time. He didn't wait for the other to comment, but walked into the street, not looking back, too focused on what was pulling him forward, rushing him toward what he had been missing for what felt like years now. Drusilla was his blood, his family, his lover and savior. He knew that she was waiting for him; that she had let him have space to play out this farce, to have his mouthful until the taste turned bitter and he had to spit it out; that she would laugh at it with him.

Anticipation filled him as he ducked into a side-street and picked up his pace.


	21. Ties

Much love to nichbuket and cordykitten!

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**Chapter Twenty-One: Ties**

Sire and Childe

They landed at LAX at two-thirty-three in the morning. They were half an hour early, but when they entered the arriving hall, Giles was already there. He had been there since midnight, sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, unable to move; unable to think of what to say to her once she reentered his life. The last words she had heard him say kept repeating themselves mockingly in his head, as though they hadn't done enough damage already.

The Slayer is dead.

She'll never be the Buffy we knew.

We can't trust her now.

He worried what shape she would be in. Would he recognize her, or would the morph into the despicability she had willingly let enter her be complete? Only God knew how harsh Spike's influence had been. Giles wanted to meet her with an open mind, but the thought of her transformation harmed him, and frightened him. He didn't know how to handle it.

Now, as she walked hesitantly towards him, he felt how taut his expression was, as though the skin of his face was straining against the muscles and bone beneath it without any real sense of what mask it was producing. His eyes, however, were alert as he fixed them in the vampiress', looking closely at her.

She had slowed her step, and Giles felt fingers yanking at his insides, brushing along his nerves, wiping his thoughts until they were an absolute blank.

The three travelers came to a stop in front of him, and he managed to produce a tentative smile.

"Hallo," he said, uncharacteristically.

The vampiress' brow creased.

"Hallo?" she asked. "Dead me walking, and that's the best you can do?"

"I'm sorry."

She smiled then. He stared at her, but all he could see was Buffy. Nothing but her. Before he realized it he had pulled her into a hard hug. One of her arms wrapped around his waist, only it wasn't as convincing as his hold, and after another moment he reluctantly let her go.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Tired," she said.

He felt ashamed at his selfishness, thinking only of his own turmoil, and none of hers.

"Come," he said. "You can sleep in the car."

**x**

Sunnydale. The mere name seemed dusty, otherworldly, cool to the touch. Like some forgotten artifact on a rotting shelf in her mind. She had so decidedly put it there, that now, searching for it, hunting for one speck of the familiar in it, she couldn't find it. But as she stepped out of the car and onto the curb outside Giles' apartment and looked up, her eyes met Willow's, and the dust was blown away, and the forgotten became real again as the redhead ran across the lawn and threw her arms around her.

"Buffy, I'm so sorry," she said, hugging her tightly. "We never meant for you to think that you had to go away."

"I know," Buffy interrupted her softly, placing her hands on her arms and pushing her away gently, meeting her gaze with what she hoped was earnestness. "I had to go away," she added with a small smile, touching the straightness of Willow's locks and thinking of better times, when she had run a brush through them while Willow sat on the floor munching popcorn and Xander lay beside her on her bed as they watched whatever unusual movie pick of the week.

She mourned it then. Her death. The wire and string that had tied her to her old life snapped one by one as she let the idea, the memory of it go. She hadn't wanted to face it, but it was true. Spike had been right. Giles had been right. The Slayer was dead. Soon to be utterly, irrevocably, dead-dead. But she needed to be put to rest now, so that the vampiress could face whatever was left, awake.

"I missed you," she told Willow, whose eyes glittered with unshed tears and her friend smiled through them.

"Where were you?" she asked hesitantly as they began to walk toward the apartment.

"Where do you think I was?" Buffy countered.

"With Spike," Willow said, even more hesitant.

Buffy smiled as well, though feeling how weak it was, doubting it even reached her eyes.

"Where's Xander?" she asked instead.

Willow was about to answer when Kendra opened the front door of the apartment, looking Buffy over doubtfully.

"Another vampire who I am not to slay," she murmured. "It is a strange business being involved with you people."

Buffy smirked, skipping formalities and proceeding in through the door.

"Hey," Spike said behind her, his voice stirring unprovoked sensations within her, tied to unwontedly fresh memories, and she turned around, reminding herself who he was not. "How did you do that?" he asked.

"What?" she wondered, but then she understood. There had been no official invitation. She frowned. "I don't know," she answered.

She spotted something on the table and walked up to it, reaching out a hand to touch it cautiously. The dagger lay peacefully ensconced in its velvet, and it looked no more a threat to her than the fabric which kept it.

"So," she mumbled. "This is to do the deed."

**x**

Everybody slept, except the vampiress, who had crept out of the guest bed and slid onto the room's deep windowsill, staring out across the lawn, its green shifting into dark blue which was destined to grow lighter the closer dawn came. The morning mist was slowly, slowly beginning to rise from it.

She thought she could see little shapes move in that white, sweeping vapor. Fairies on their way to greet the rising sun, dancing hand in hand to pay tribute to its brilliance. Buffy missed the sun. The warmth of its rays on her skin. But the mere memory of it made the vampire in her shudder and she directed her thoughts on the moon instead, of the chill of night and how it was her confidant now.

She rested her chin against one knee.

Not knowing how much time she had left was the worst part. This whole undertaking was built on nothing but a stack of questions, and without a satisfactory answer to each and every one, it would all come tumbling down. Giles had gotten a bit further in the research, but he maintained that a ceremony such as this was not to simply be preformed. He had to make sure that he knew every last step of the ritual, or something could go horribly wrong. Since the world wasn't cracking around the edges just yet, he had told her that he figured there was still some time.

She had almost asked if there was anything that could be done to save her, but then thought better of it. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't have overlooked something as vital as that. There was a sacrifice that needed to be made, and that was that.

She moved away from the window, slipping soundlessly up to the door and opening it painstakingly slowly, continuing through it on light feet and entering the living room.

The Slayer was asleep on the couch.

Buffy kneeled beside her, watching her face for a long minute. She wished she could delve into the other's mind; see what she was thinking, dreaming, feeling. Join with her somehow. Perhaps even share some of herself with the other. She gently touched the other's hand with her fingertips, the heat of its skin startling her into standing, taking a step back. The thump of the Slayer's heart filled her head, beating louder and louder until she wanted to scream for it to stop.

Tear at the jugular. Make it seep out.

She was at the front door in a blink, running outside.

Morning embraced her as though it wanted to keep her with it until nothing would be left of her but ashes. The world drawing a last breath of relief as there was nothing more for it to do but perish. Her feet pounded the pavement in objection.

She didn't stop until she reached another door.

Of a crypt.

The sun was minutes away now, and no matter how she wanted to run even more badly from this place than she had the other, she had no choice but to proceed inside. The door closed with an unsubtle bang, but she knew it wouldn't wake him. She stepped inside, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling suddenly exhausted.

"Buffy?"

Unbelievable.

She turned her head to the sarcophagus, from on top of which the voice came. That well-known voice, bearing an unknown trace of concern in it. How welcomed it was, hitting her ears as though wanting them to get used to it.

"Anything wrong?" the novelty continued as he sat up, bare-chested and newly awake, the slumber still tainting the blue of his eyes.

"Yes," she replied, then shook her head. "No."

Her thoughts were spinning a web. Around and around it went, tangling them up in it as it took form.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm doing here," she said, turning around and grabbing the iron ring of the door.

"Can't do that," he stopped her, at her side now, and she saw the light which had just begun to gild the air and dust of the place, dancing calmly in its proclamation of certain death, should she venture into it.

She let the ring go, smiling a little as she met his gaze.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

"No," she confirmed.

"Even with that welcome party breathing down your neck and the hugs and the kisses?"

"There were no kisses."

He smirked.

"That why you can't sleep?" he inquired.

She gave him a look, but his mouth and his eyes and his hands were all Spike's, and so there was no real sting in it.

"Got a cure for it," he declared.

"I'm sure you do," she said, watching him as he walked up to where his duster was slung over a beam, pulling it down and extracting something out of one of its pockets.

A flask.

She wrinkled her nose, but as he unscrewed it and reached it out to her with a rather encouraging smile, she couldn't resist. She accepted it with a smile in return.

"Thanks," she said. "I guess."

She sniffed the strong liquor once before taking a deep mouthful, swallowing it down with a shudder.

He smirked once more.

"I think there's hope for you yet," he said and she smiled widely.

**x**

"He tortured me," she said, half an hour later as they sat on the floor, backs against the sarcophagus. "Nearly killed me," she added. "Give me some more of that."

He handed her the flask and she finished off the contents – which they had been sharing amiably between them – with one gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"He's hateful," she grumbled. "I hate him."

The last sentence was so quiet she wasn't sure he had picked up on it, but then he huffed.

"Doesn't make it any easier, though, does it?" he asked.

She looked up at him.

"No," she grumbled. "It doesn't."

"He's stubborn," he said. "Makes him too blind to see what he's missing."

She smiled again.

"What about Buffy?" she asked.

"What about her?" he wondered, getting to his feet.

"Is she too blind to see what she's missing?"

He smirked, but didn't answer.

"Let's get some sleep, love," he said, reaching out a hand to help her up.

She almost giggled at the gesture, but kept it down, sliding her hand into his.

**x**

Willow snuck past the sleeping Slayer, walking through the short hallway taking her to the guest bedroom. Kendra had graciously given up her room for the vampiress and was currently situated on a mattress upstairs; though Willow wondered if her forgoing hadn't been for all of their peace of mind. As though having four walls around Buffy would make it seem more normal that she wasn't human anymore.

Willow straightened her back as she stopped in front of the door.

She had decided almost the second Buffy ran off, all those weeks ago, that she would never allow herself to jump to conclusions about anything, and that she would show nothing but the support and respect she had always had for her friend before. Buffy wasn't gone. Even though she had decided to let Spike bite her and then drink his blood.

Willow raised one arm and knocked gently. When there was no reply after her third knock, she slid the door open. Her eyes widened at the sight of nothing but a barely disturbed bed. She spun around and practically stumbled into the living room, shaking life into the Slayer, who sat up groggily, trying to fend her off.

"_What_? What is it?" she exclaimed.

"She's not _here_. She's _gone_!"

**x**

Angel opened his front door, rubbing one sleepy eye and frowning at the unanticipated sight of the Slayer.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

He widened the gap of the door; closing it behind her once she had entered, unsure of what she was doing there.

"We got back last night," she stated.

"Yeah, I know," he nodded, reaching for a crumbled up shirt on the floor and slipping it on casually, beginning to button it up. "I mean," he continued, "I heard. That you were coming back. I just..."

"You wanted her to come to _you_," Buffy filled in.

"Yeah," he admitted. "In case she didn't want me to... Or if she wasn't ready."

"She'll want to see you," Buffy cut in. "Don't worry, she will. But I'm guessing she didn't come by last night."

He furrowed his brow again.

"No," he replied.

"Okay."

"Wait," he tried to stop her as she turned and went back out the door.

"Can't!" she called over her shoulder.

**x**

The sound of the door opening stirred the vampiress from her sleep and she slowly sat up, resting one hand on Spike's chest where he lay beside her. The black leather of her pants was lined with dust and she had the strongest yearning for a shower. Her back was stiff. His arm lost its grip on her shoulders and slapped down on the sarcophagus just as she looked up and met the stricken gaze of the Slayer.

"I was looking for you," the latter said, her voice unsteady, and she cleared her throat. "Even went by the house..."

"Was she there?" the vampiress asked, something steel-toothed clamping down on her heart at the thought of her mother.

"No," the Slayer answered.

The stillness was absolute as none of them could think of anything to say.

"I couldn't sleep," Buffy finally blurted. "He..."

"No, no," the Slayer stopped her with a smile. "Of course. I'm sure you're both tired. I'll leave you to it."

With that she turned and the next moment was swallowed by blazing sunlight.


	22. Skip

Thanks to nichbuket and nicky (welcome!). :)

With love,

the author.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Skip**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

Spike stretched and sat up, his gaze falling on the vampiress, standing with an extremely guilty expression by the foot of the sarcophagus.

"Evening," he said with a smile.

"Yes," she said unsurely. "Buffy came by."

He observed her face for a moment.

"Okay."

"She saw me with you. She may have thought..."

She trailed off and Spike scooted forward until he was sitting on the edge before her.

"Trust me," he said. "We could've been naked and she wouldn't have batted an eyelash."

He jumped down, feeling the gaze of the vampiress linger on him as he pulled the T over his head. Doubt was surrounding her, and it infested him. A flash of the Buffybot splintered his conviction of the Slayer's placidness. She was so bloody eager to jump to conclusions, she was sure to have skipped and hopped her way into the easiness of this one.

"Bloody hell," he swore silently.

**x**

Willow held the dagger up to the light, examining it.

"Anything new?" the Slayer asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out and Willow glanced her way. "Sorry," she murmured, just as the front door opened, the vampiress coming through it, with the vampire in tow.

The Slayer didn't even glance at them, but something pitted itself in the middle of her chest, the suction of a vacuum where blood should be pumping. She clenched her knuckles, keeping her gaze on the dagger as the other two came further into the room.

He was hesitant. She had to admit she enjoyed that fact. He should be trembling in his DocMartins.

She glanced over at him and the anger she had tried so hard to control blasted free at the sight of his slightly narrowed eyes, watching her as though he was trying to figure out how to act around her. She would be more than happy to explain to him exactly how she would like him to act – like a great big nebulous cloud of dust.

His eyes had widened ever so slightly and she realized she must be looking at him with all the vehemence she was feeling. Good.

She rose, walking past the two of them and into the hallway taking her to the guestroom, leaving the door open behind her she turned to face the opening just as Spike came through it, slowly pushing the door closed behind him, gaze in hers.

"Well, let's hear it," she said, feeling strange at how suddenly she felt disillusioned by him.

He observed her for a long minute.

"I'm not going to bloody defend myself to you," he grumbled, turning around and opening the door, proceeding through it and closing it behind him.

She crossed her arms over her chest, eyebrows arching slowly as she waited. She was tempted to count, but didn't. She knew it wouldn't be long. And sure enough, the door opened again and he came through it, but it wasn't wearing an apologetic face – it was wearing an incensed one. She hadn't been expecting that.

"I comforted her," he stated, coming to a halt before her. "I listened to her. And, gentleman that I am, I didn't want her to have to sleep on the bloody floor."

"Why didn't _you_ take the bloody floor?"

"You know nothing happened," he said. "Buffy, _nothing_ bloody well happened. I didn't do anything wrong! _She_ came to _me_."

"Convenient, huh?"

"I could stand here swearing at the sodding top of my lungs for the rest of the day that I didn't have an ulterior motive with letting her into the crypt last night and you still wouldn't hear it, would you? This is your biggest problem, Slayer – you make your mind up and it's bloody well made up for good, innit?"

She smiled a small smile as confirmation, knowing that the irony of it would drive him mad.

His darkening glare proved her right.

He turned around and opened the door with a yank, striding through it and slamming it shut behind him, quite demonstratively.

She huffed, taking a step back and having a seat on the bed, her arms unfolding, hands dropping into her lap. She felt rather exhausted, energy drained from her, as though he fed off it as much as he craved her blood.

The door slid open. She didn't need to look up to know who it was.

"It's true, you know," the vampiress said softly.

"Do I?" Buffy asked, not wanting to sound as bitter as she did.

"I'm sorry I just left," the other said. "I had to. Just had to get out. I didn't even know where I was going, but I'm happy I ended up there."

"I'm sure he is, too," the Slayer murmured.

The vampiress smiled, shaking her head a little.

"Jealousy never became us," she remarked.

"If you knew what he's done, you wouldn't think it was jealousy," Buffy replied sharply.

"Whatever he did, he didn't do anything to me but listen," the vampiress retorted, slipping back outside with one last glance at the Slayer, who raised her head, opening her mouth to respond, but the other was out of sight before she got the chance.

**x**

"As far as I can tell," Giles said to Willow, "the only thing specified is the time of day the sacrifice needs to take place; nothing about the cycle of the moon or how high the tide should be or a certain alignment of stars."

"Which direction the grass should grow," Spike muttered from his seat.

"Have anything to contribute?" Giles asked, Spike meeting his gaze.

"No."

"Then I would say interrupting those that do isn't in anybody's best interest."

Spike bit his jaws together to keep from making any sort of comment on that, glaring down at his nails, where the polish was seriously chipping off. The vampiress came into the room and he glanced at her as she had a seat on one of the chairs. He couldn't quite make up his mind about her. One part of her seemed frail to the point of breaking at the smallest show of kindness, while another was made out of iron and sheer willpower to keep going, to see this through. He never knew what expression her eyes would bear when she looked at him, or how he should return it.

The Slayer entered, pausing for a moment somewhere behind him before she walked around the couch and had a seat next to him. He felt an unwanted smile twitch itself onto his mouth, but killed it quickly. She turned her head to him and he waited another moment before turning his to her, his eyes meeting her gaze, which was irritated, before a smile spread on her lips, and she looked away. He smirked.

"Not mad at me anymore, eh?" he wondered.

"Why should I be mad?" she asked, looking at him again.

Something hurtful crawled into his chest at her artificial – but convincing – indifference; however, he smiled, raising his shoulders in the hint of a shrug.

"Guess I'll accept that as an apology," he said.

"I'm not apologizing. Why would I be apologizing?"

"For lying about not being mad, for starters," he replied.

"I'm not lying. Why would I be lying?"

"I don't know. Why would you be?"

She parted her lips to reply, but then halted herself, giving him a long look which only produced another smile on his face.

"I'm not," she said.

"You're not what?"

"_Lying_."

"Why aren't you?"

"I've nothing to lie about."

"So you _were_ mad?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"_No_. I wasn't. I mean, I... Oh, shut up."

She sunk back in the couch, shaking her head at herself or him or all of it.

"You mad now?" he asked.

"I'll hurt you, you know I will."

"As do I, if you two don't stop this minute!" Giles butted in; closing the book he was reading loudly and getting to his feet. "Willow, you and I are going to the library. And people who are not conducting research are staying right here until we get back."

He added the last as the vampiress was about to say something, wearing a rather pleading expression. Willow glanced at the Slayer and the Vamp, and then rose as well; collecting the material she was going over and following the Watcher out the door. The vampiress sighed loudly.

"Testy," Spike murmured.

"Very. He gets crabby when it's taking too long to find answers," the Slayer remarked.

"Taking it out on us," he muttered.

There was a knock on the door and the vampiress got to her feet, almost tipping the chair over.

"Thank you," Spike heard her say to no one in particular as she walked up to the door.

She opened it and the vampire could feel the air change. It was as though it was pressed down from the ceiling, compacted around his feet. He knew the Slayer felt it too, and they both turned their heads to the doorway, which was taken up by the tall shape of Angel.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," the vampiress replied.

"I didn't want to... Am I intruding?"

"You're never intruding," she replied and he smiled a small smile.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

She nodded, disappearing through the door and closing it behind them.

Spike turned his gaze in Buffy's, who had raised her eyebrows and he smirked at her meaningful expression before he whistled softly and they sunk back against the pillows.


	23. Because

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Because**

Sire and Childe

Buffy faced Angel. She had a waterfall of emotions in her bosom, its rapid waters making it difficult to really feel anything. He held her gaze for a long time before he spoke; but his eyes weren't intrusive, they were soothing, like a gentle stroke on the back.

"How have you been?" he asked.

"Depends," she answered. "Do you want the perky, optimistic answer; or the one where I was bleeding for a day and a half?"

He stared at her and she regretted her bluntness.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I kind of already knew," he murmured and she observed him, incredulous. "Spike never was one to do things half-heartedly," he elaborated and there was a smile she couldn't suppress at that comment.

"No," she agreed. "Still isn't," she added.

Angel watched her face, growing thoughtful.

"I shouldn't have let you go," he said silently.

"I don't think there was anything anyone could do to stop me," she replied honestly. "I don't blame you for anything. You know that, don't you?"

He seemed unsure of how to accept her forgiveness, though she truly felt there had never been any need for him to seek it. He reached out and took a soft hold of her hand, bringing it into both of his, closing his fingers around it. She got the impression he never wanted to let go.

"You're back now," he said, smiling slightly again.

"For a little while," she reminded; his grip hardening.

"Buffy," he mumbled, taking the step that separated them. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she smiled, thinking she felt some lost echo of her heart beat reverberating against her ribcage. "You were unconscious, hanging from a rope, bleeding. Are you back to your old self? Is everything...?" she tried to keep the topic on something neutral, as his hands around hers and that honest expression he wore told her exactly why he was standing so close

"I love you," he interrupted her.

How she had longed to hear him say it. How she had prayed and wished and hoped and known. And how she had loved him back.

"Angel..."

But before she could finish, he kissed her.

For an instant she did feel everything that he felt, and the emotions were fluid and exquisite around her heart. She kissed him back with as much fervor as he had joined their lips, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling her closer to him. All the safety and happiness and love she had experienced with him burst into her as though they had never left and she was grateful for it. But then the instant tumbled into the next, and in that next instant all of her convictions were gone, and she remembered what she had started to say before he chased the words from her mouth.

She ended the kiss and took a step back.

His brow was furrowing, and she wished she could stop it, smooth the creases, and put understanding in their stead.

"You want him?" he asked flatly.

"I don't know what I want," she replied. "And it's about to not matter, so..." She trailed off for a moment; then finished: "I don't know who I am anymore."

"Yes, you do," he disagreed, sadness sweeping into his features before he turned and left.

She wanted to call after him, but couldn't bring herself to.

Then a new sensation attacked her, sliding down her spine, circling her abdomen before shooting into her chest and she turned around.

The glowing tip of a cigarette fell through the air, hitting the stones before a booted foot stepped on it.

She drew an unnecessary breath, the astonishment she experienced swiftly being carried away by an exhilarating rush of pleasure as the vampire stepped into the light, his nostrils letting the smoke out before he smirked.

"Funny," he said. "I never thought I'd be the one to agree with ripe, old Peaches." She cocked an eyebrow. "I do believe you know exactly who you are."

Her sire.

The pleasure dripped away as she recalled how they had parted, and his appearance felt little in comparison.

They eyed each other in silence.

"Did you see Drusilla?" she finally asked.

He looked mildly taken aback, but then he smiled and shook his head. She watched his face for another dragged out second, thinking how extraordinary it was that he actually looked different from the Spike inside the apartment. Harder, somehow. Devious. She could never be sure exactly what he was thinking, or if he was being even remotely sincere about anything.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded when he didn't seem about to give up the information of his own accord.

"Thought I'd interest things up a little."

"They're interesting enough."

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes filling with softness; as if he actually believed it was just about showing up.

"Tell me you're not happy to see me," he entreated.

"Doesn't mean I want you here," she bit, heading for the front door.

"Oh, sure. You'd rather be looking for yourself under the tongue of that bloody poof," he scoffed.

She spun around, anger making her throat ache with the need to scream at him, but he was standing right before her, and her mouth shut again from sheer shock at all that his presence produced within her. It was as though she had been without a life sustaining drug since she left him, and now the unexpected fix was melting her veins.

"Buffy," he said quietly, and there was something new in his eyes, something that went away too quickly; she had no time to recognize it.

His fingertips gently slipped over her cheek. She rested her gaze in his, a surge of resentment mixing with the longing in her breast and she moved out of his caress, turning from him as she said:

"Don't touch me."

Abruptly she walked up to the door.

**x**

He watched her disappear through it, impatience sighing out a long breath within him, getting him moving in her wake, having to stop in the doorway as no invitation had been given, and his restraints made irritation bloom its violent colors.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he called after her, watching as the Slayer and Vamp rose from a couch at the sound of his voice, their heads turning to him, the Slayer looking surprised, while the other vampire bore an expression of such irony that he thought he deserved a good thrashing.

"No," his Buffy said, facing him where she was, eight feet away: might as well have been eight-thousand. "You were never 'here'," she continued. "I'm getting it now. And guess what, I don't _care_. So say what it is you came here to say. Say goodbye, or good riddance, or have one last look at your creation, but then that's it. That's all you get. And you can go the hell away and leave me alone. Oh, for crying out loud, come in."

The barrier disappeared and though he lost his balance momentarily he quickly regained it, stepping inside. His eyes didn't leave hers, and he could see that she was absolutely serious. Her words would have worried, if he hadn't also been able to perceive a faltering in her certainty. He smiled.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

She seemed to not know what to say to that and he took another step, overcome by the need to touch her again, to have her press herself as close to him as she had to Angel. Envy nearly choked him, but he got rid of it, appalled by it, stopping in front of her.

"You're not the most welcomed addition," she pointed out.

"What, the whelp is gonna make me leave?" he asked. "The Watcher? Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber?" he added with a nod to the Slayer and the Vamp, whose faces knotted themselves up in annoyance, merely making him smirk again. "You?" he wondered softly, eyes back in Buffy's.

He could tell it was running off her, the defensiveness. He was amazed at seeing a glimmer of light in her gaze. He wouldn't have thought it would be so easy. Only, when she spoke he realized he was far from winning her over.

"Fine," she said. "Stay. Watch me die. Should make for good, clean, wholesome vampire fun, shouldn't it?"

She turned and disappeared through a doorway leading somewhere obscure. He clenched his jaws together, turning his eyes on the Slayer and Vampire, who both looked mildly accusing.

"That is _not_ why I came," he said, neither of them seeming very convinced by that statement.

**x**

Buffy stood straight-backed by the guestroom window, looking without seeing, every overwhelming emotion draining from her, leaving a numbing vacuum, and she wasn't sure if it was better or worse. The thought of Angel brought a sharp pain cutting through the emptiness, but the following one of Spike left her listless once more.

Someone entered the room. She waited for her to speak, though she knew the words would have difficulty finding their rightful order, since the Slayer had no empathy for her. The vampiress doubted she even had any sympathy, but in the next moment she admitted the doubt to be misplaced, since the Slayer wouldn't even be in there if she hadn't felt affected by the circumstances.

"How are you?" the words finally came.

"If I said I felt like I was being put through a meat-grinder, would it sound overly dramatic?" the vampiress asked.

The Slayer made a face, but then smiled the hint of a smile, and the vampiress relaxed slightly. At least the other wasn't there adorned in preacher attire, readying herself to take her place on the soapbox.

"What's the deal with you two?" she inquired lightly, the vampiress observing her for a moment before she shrugged.

"He's my sire," she replied. "Too late for deals."

The Slayer was silenced by that, an air of discomfort taking over the atmosphere nearest to her. The vampiress smirked, moving her eyes back to the window, unsure of why she should feel superior to the mortal, but the notion being too strong to shake off. It clung to her shoulders with pointy nails, making the smirk widen.

"I don't think he should stay," the Slayer said.

"I know," the vampiress replied.

"Why is he?"

The vampiress turned her gaze in the others and the Slayer took it in for a moment before she gave a slight nod, leaving the room. The vampiress' eyes wandered to the limited view once more, slowly dimming until they were unseeing again, staring blindly out at a world that rested entirely on her shoulders.

**x**

The man slipped into a narrow alley, glancing nervously back the way he had come. Praying that he hadn't been followed he walked as quietly as possible towards the door a few yards away, situated in the worn brick-wall of the building to his right. Once he reached it he cast a few more glances in either direction, making sure there were no eyes watching him – at least none that he could actually see – before he knocked three times, bringing his hands together in front of his mouth and blowing hot breath on them to chase away the chill they were suffering, both from this undertaking, and from the bitingly cold wind.

As the door opened a snowflake sailed by his line of sight, making him tilt his head back and look up at the clouds in the sky, which seemed to bring it closer, making the man feel smaller. They must have finally decided to unburden themselves, because the white began to fall in somber fatness, as if they wished for nothing but to swallow up the dirt of autumn, and placate it with its starch and bleach.

The being in the doorway glared at the man's smile, and he quickly rid himself of it.

"I am here to see sir Intagar," he said and the demon stepped out of the way with a mutter.

The man entered the hallway taking him into a vast room. Its ceiling was reminiscent of a cathedral in height and width, and the light of day fell in through high-set windows, creating shafts which crisscrossed far above his head. He felt anxious, his palms sweating.

The room was painted a dark green and in the middle of its expanse there was a garden. The man glanced at the door-demon, who was following in his trail, but the demon made no sign of acknowledging him and he felt silly in hoping to draw some sort of comfort from him. The demon suddenly stopped. The man did the same, but the demon gestured for him to continue and after what felt like a whole lifetime's worth of hesitating, the man did as the gesture suggested, walking across the dark green painted floor to find himself stepping onto grass.

Apple trees were blooming around him, wild roses splashed the ground with pink, circling the tree trunks in succulent embraces, and the scent of approaching summer was carried on a breeze which ruffled through the apple-blossoms, making their bright, white petals scurry, like the flakes of ice outside. And as the rays of a sun that couldn't possibly shine in this place spread its warm light through the enchanting scenery, the man got the feeling that it was all an illusion, cleverly construed, but stolen out of his mind.

"Correct," a voice said to his left and he halted, turning his head to the tall being standing there, dressed in grey robes, with skin the same color, and eyes that were black but for one streak of green.

Sir Intagar smiled, displaying a toothless mouth, though his pronunciation carried not even the trace of a lisp.

"It is designed to make my clients feel less exposed," he added with a nod to a group of stone benches surrounding a low fountain, merrily splashing water out of a bird-shape placed in its middle. "You are welcome," he said as they had a seat.

The man wasn't convinced that he was out of danger, but it wasn't the demon opposite him that he feared.

"Sir Intagar," he greeted, bowing his head. "I come to you humbly, wishing to transfer onto you an artifact of great value, in exchange for a mortal's sum."

The demon smiled again, nodding.

The man brought one hand inside his suit jacket, taking out an object wrapped in black velvet. His hold was shaking ever so slightly as he respectfully reached it over to the demon, who accepted it, weighing it on his palms before he unwrapped it, taking in a hiss of breath, his eyes widening before he looked up at the man.

"The Mark of Nebulon," the demon said reverently and the man finally smiled, feeling a great weight lift off his shoulders as the burden was off his hands and in the other's. "How could you possibly have come to possess such a treasure?" the demon inquired, his eyes fastened on the sleek dagger in his grasp.

The man smiled again, this time shrewdly, before he replied:

"I stole it."


	24. Unyielding

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Unyielding**

Sire and Childe

Giles leaned over the table, looking closely at the blade of the dagger, correcting his glasses slightly as he moved his upper body to the side and studied the open pages of the volume lying next to the artifact. The drawing of the weapon was unsatisfactory, but the text was vibrantly informative, though it, to Giles' detriment, stated nothing that they hadn't read before.

Willow eyed the pattern of symbols running along the golden inlay of the blade. It was just about visible without a magnifying glass, and Willow's brow was creased with concentration. Scratched into the precious metal were an image of a large X; five lines stretched out from one point, resembling a hand; an eye and two lines running alongside each other, like a train track. There were four other symbols, all of them made out of lines and their meaning being completely hidden.

"The eye should be a warning of some sort," Giles said.

"Yes," Willow more or less sighed, since she had heard this quite a few times during the last couple of days. "Or a blessing. Or a curse."

He looked up at her as she sat down on a chair with a huff.

"If it was a curse the X should come after it, and not before it," Giles said.

"I was trying on sarcasm," Willow mumbled. "I guess it doesn't fit."

He smiled, having a seat as well.

"We need help," Willow stated the dreaded words and they flew like black crows about the room, casting shadows where none should be.

"It is the order of the symbols that seem almost random. The message isn't making any sense," he murmured, taking his glasses off thoughtfully. "And I cannot make out why."

"Hence the 'we need help'," Willow tried again, but Giles merely rose, leaning over the dagger once more.

**x**

Spike touched the pictures standing collected on a low table. A few featured Buffy and he picked one up casually, looking it over. She was in sunlight, her hair gleaming golden, her face was partially in shadow under a ridiculously large hat, but her smile was unmistakable. He put it back down gently, turning his eyes on his double, situated by the fireplace, Slayer at his side.

Bloody mind-boggling, those two standing within an inch of each other without at least glaring the other to death.

"Alright," he couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer. "You bleeding well have to tell me what the story is."

The door, behind which his Buffy had been keeping herself out of sight for nearly twenty minutes, now opened and she came through it, meeting his gaze briefly, not breaking her stride as she headed for the front door.

"Hey," he tried to stop her, but she opened it.

"No," she said. "There's someone I have to see."

He took a step forward, but the door closed in a very definite manner.

**x**

She snuck up the stairs, keeping as quiet as she could. A TV was on somewhere in the house, but it sounded as though it was situated behind a closed door and she continued down the hallway, pausing outside the room she wanted. The door was standing ajar, and she put a hand against it, pushing it open. She stood still for another handful of seconds before she finally stepped inside.

"Xander?" she said.

He looked up from the comic he was reading, glancing back at it somewhat alarmed before he tossed it unceremoniously aside, rising to his feet with a set expression on his face. That well-known face, that had always looked so adoringly and sweetly upon her, eager to hear whatever new instruction would fall from her mouth, willing to listen to any humdrum girly comment she had to offer about really manly things like digging for oil or learning how to work heavy machinery, both of which she had a very strong opinion that women could do just as well and she had promised that one day she would prove that she was right. Now it was as if he barely saw her. Or barely wanted to see her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she shot.

He took his eyes out of hers.

"Don't even want to look at me, huh?" she wondered quietly. "Now that I'm this thing. I don't deserve to be near you anymore. I don't deserve your friendship. Your trust. Because I'm not the Slayer."

"Not because you're not the Slayer," he disagreed.

"Because I'm a vampire," she clarified and his gaze snapped back into hers. "Because I'm a demon."

He observed her for a lot longer this time, but eventually looked away again.

"The Slayer may be dead, but I'm still me, Xander," she said, her voice beginning to quiver with emotion and she fought to steady it. "I'm me. And I won't let the demon take me over. And you won't have to hunt me down because I'm killing people." His face contorted as his eyes filled with tears and she approached him, stopping in front of him. "You have to trust me," she said softly, "because I can't do this without you. You have to forgive me, Xander."

"We were like a family," he mumbled. "'The Scoobies'." He sniffled, finally meeting her gaze. "I thought it'd always be like that." She nodded a little. So had she. "Why did you choose him?" he asked, hard pain in his voice and she felt her mouth go dry. "How could you do that?"

Her throat ached, but her eyes expelled any tears as she reached up her hands and placed them on either side of his face, making him look at her before she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. It took another moment, but then his arms went around her as well, holding her to him and a smile spread on her mouth as she buried her face against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

It was the best she could give him.

**x**

Spike watched the Slayer and her ninny companion as they interacted; their behavior wearing his already thin patience into a fine transparent film until he felt obliged to make a comment.

"So," he spoke up, making both of them pause their bloody bonding ritual to turn equally impatient eyes on him. Whatever he had done to deserve it, he had no idea. "Are you friends, or something?" he added. "You carry on like your sodding sewn together at the hip, talking like your languages are actually intelligible to the other, looking like two peas in a disgustingly green pod, so are you bleeding friends, because if you are, I may well have to become a monk and go hide away in a monastery in a mountain somewhere, forswearing my evil ways for all eternity."

The Slayer observed him with a slight frown before turning her eyes on the ninny.

"You're such a drama queen," she said.

"Don't bloody well smack us into one person; have I done that with you and the other Buffy?"

"Oh, I don't know, was it really her sleeping on your arm last night?"

"You have too high thoughts of yourself, Slayer, I've always said so."

"See!" Spike exclaimed, getting both of their eyes on him again. "That! Right there! That's what I mean!"

He shuddered, getting to his feet and taking himself as far away from them as he could get, leaning against the wall next to the front door just as it opened. His Buffy came through it, and he was about to greet her when his gaze fell on the person she was towing like a lost-now-I-am-found little rowboat behind her.

"What's he doing here?" Xander asked and Spike couldn't suppress a smirk.

He could never stifle the mirth he felt whenever one of her pathetic little friends opened their mouths. They always started by asking the most obvious questions, to which she never failed to deliver obvious answers. At least she restrained herself from patting them on the head as she did so. She was so out of their league.

He paused, wondering where that thought had come from; but as he looked at her, he realized that it agreed with him, and so he left it alone.

"Please," she now said, glancing at him before looking beseechingly at the whelp. "Don't start, okay?"

"Don't start?" the human asked. "He's the reason you're... He's the bastard that..."

"Can't even finish a sentence, eh?" Spike asked.

Xander turned his head to him and then he was suddenly on him, pushing him as harshly as any mere mortal ever pushed anything up against a wall, his hand drawing back to deliver a punch.

"I'd think about it for a second," Spike warned. "My face will undoubtedly break at least three of your fingers."

"Xander," Buffy said soothingly, stepping forward and wrapping her hands around his raised fist, bringing it down as she made him take a step back. "Don't."

He let his grasp on Spike's duster go with a huff and the vampire smiled widely.

"Thought you'd be used to having her fight your battles for you," he remarked and before he could even register it approaching, Buffy's fist hit him square across the jaw in a blow that sent him tumbling backwards to the floor.

The vampiress smiled, addressing the room with:

"That felt oddly liberating."

Spike could hear chuckles right before he blacked out.

**x**

Buffy stood by the foot of the bed in the guestroom, on which Spike lay. He looked human in this light, with his brow smooth and his face relaxed. Whenever his body was in repose the beauty of him traced itself far too easily on his features, as if his dreams were comforting where reality was haunting. He stirred, and she waited to speak until his eyes eased open and fastened in hers.

"You're such an ass," she stated.

He seemed to digest this for a moment, looking rather disoriented, and then one hand went to the spot which had taken the punch and his eyes widened with indignation.

"You hit me," he said accusingly.

"I hit the ass that is your head," she retorted. "Didn't think it'd knock you out. Honestly, I didn't even hit you that hard."

"You _hit_ me _that_ hard," he disagreed with a glare at her, working the ache in his jaw with grimaces as he pushed himself into a seated position. "If you're so bloody angry with me, why don't you tell me to go?"

"I did, you didn't listen."

"Frustrating, innit?"

She met his gaze for a second, but couldn't keep her eyes in his.

"I'm not angry," she said. He scoffed at that, but she shook her head a little. "I'm... through. You don't care," she stated matter-of-factly, looking at him again and feeling both light and extraordinarily heavy. "You don't care," she repeated. "But if you want to be part of this, you _will_ keep your mouth shut and stop insulting those that do care about me."

"Buffy," he tried; his tone was coaxing and she felt how hard her eyes became, what a distance she was placing between herself and the vampire.

"You're here to ease that deluded sense of some obligation you have to me, because I'm your childe, and I'm telling you that it's fine. Stay. But don't you ever say my name like that again. You have no right."

With that she turned and marched out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Spike sat back against the pillows, thunderstruck. He hadn't expected her to fall into his arms – the way she had _Angel's_ – and he hadn't expected her to smile and act as though the fight between them had never happened, but this? He didn't bloody need this.

What was he doing there?

What had compelled him to jump on a plane to this damned country instead of searching for the one thing that could bring peace back into his existence? Had he fought all those years to find a cure for Drusilla, just to leave it like this?

Hell no.

He scooted off the bed angrily, getting to his feet and grabbing the duster that hung over the back of a chair. He noted how neatly it had been folded together, how a pair of hands must have taken great care to put it just so. He pulled it on harshly, stalking up to the door and stopping.

Go on, a voice spoke up. Go on. Leave. Leave her to it. She'll be gone soon anyway. She's right, what's it to you? You'll be rid of her, and it won't be that weakling of a hand of yours that's done the deed. You've been cleaned of her. You don't have to be here.

But right then, in that moment, he understood that he did.

He had to be there. He had to see it for himself.

"'Keep your mouth shut'," he grumbled, mimicking her. "'Don't have the right to'."

He discarded the regular exit and walked up to the window, opening it and searching the landscape for anything living. Nothing stirred the stillness.

Fine, he thought, jumping up on the sill before landing softly on the grass. I'll just go find me something.

He looked back at the room, feeling a strong sense of defiance as he turned from it and left it behind.


	25. Pain

Much love and oodles of respect to nichbuket, cordykitten (for her four reviews, you crazy kitten) , Miss Snooze and Brunettepet (for all six reviews, you nutter-butter) :)

Hugs from me and hope you will all like the following!

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Pain**

Sire and Childe

The man stared at the water glass standing on the table in front of him. The diner was nearly empty of patrons, but the slow murmur of the two older gentlemen at the counter, and the slight squeal of the two children squirming in their seats as their mother patiently told them to be still, didn't bother the man. He was intent on his glass of water.

He was sure he had seen something move in it.

He was sure that there was some kind of creature in there just waiting to grow tentacles, splinter its breakable prison and reach for him; wrap its cold, wet arms around him and squeeze the life out of him.

He was so sure that he paid for the food that was yet to arrive, leaving a generous tip and with trembling fingers put on his jacket, correcting his glasses slightly before pulling his hunting cap down low over his ears and heading out into the swirling snow.

They were coming for him.

He could feel it.

**x**

Spike leaned against a shop-window full of lacy underwear and enticingly intricate boudoir slips. Dru had favored red, but he had always been partial to black. It stood out against pale skin almost as if it had been conscientiously painted on with fluid brushstrokes. Peeling those brushstrokes off had always been the most tantalizing act of pure sensuality.

He lit a fag, taking a long drag on it before surveying his surroundings. People were walking, chatting happily. He couldn't remember what day it was, but by the looks of it, it was Friday. Young women wore high heels that clattered against the pavement, making him think of long legs, and all those secret places they could lead.

Buffy's face made a cameo behind his eyelids and he blinked it away in exasperation. His gaze fastened on a dark-skinned beauty not too far away. She reminded him of the previous owner of his duster and he made his decision in one blink, pushing away from the window and beginning to approach her.

She looked wholesome, and was smiling at one of her girlfriends. They were talking about what sounded like school. A teacher who was giving them all kinds of pain for not finishing an assignment on time. Life could be such a bitch.

Spike put on a self-assured semi-smirk as he rounded on the girl, placing himself smoothly between her and her friend, getting the eyes of the mark in his.

"Hello, poppet," he purred.

"Excuse me," the friend said, but the girl paid her no attention.

Spike's smirk turned into a smile.

"Want to see something?" he asked.

The girl nodded slowly, and he brought his hand into hers. She seemed to notice the cool of his touch because for a second she wavered, but then she let herself be led in his wake, her gaze not leaving his.

"Trish!" the girl called after her.

She sounded pissed off. She wouldn't cause any trouble. She'd probably storm home, offended by her friend so easily ditching her and scalded by the fact that she hadn't been the one chosen.

He pulled the girl into an L shaped alley, getting her to the tip of it before he leaned her gently against the wall. It really wasn't so bad, this. It wasn't like she was running through a thicket, stumbling and crying, mascara running, legs aching, heart pounding. It wasn't like he wanted her to scream. Though that could be fun, too. No, usually he just wanted an easy kill, and it was quite a nice way to go, considering all the other things that could happen to a person.

He brought her hair to the side, eyeing her neck and the vein which exposed itself, pulsating with heat, bidding him to take it. He stroked the spot with one finger. How many had he tasted? How many mouthfuls of life had been given to saturate him? He made the muscles of his face shift, sensed how the world took on a different set of vibrations when he stripped himself fully of the few human shackles he was bound to, and brought one hand to grasp the girl's jaw. He made her move her head so that her eyes met his again. Hers were green, he noticed briefly, as the placated expression they had wore switched into one filled with fear, her body beginning to shake as tears rose in her eyes.

He stared at her and wondered why he should feel so taken aback.

He let his hold go, not even trying to stop her as she started running, the sound of her feet growing faint until disappearing entirely; this being the moment he understood what he had just done, and he clenched his hands into fists.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled at the wall.

A tickling sensation slid over his shoulders.

Slayer.

He didn't have time to turn around before her foot connected with the small of his back, sending him brutally into the bricks of the wall. He spun around against it. She met his gaze and he felt the old excitement at fighting her fill him to the brink, running over in delightful little swirls that tasted sweetly on his tongue.

"Hello, love," he said softly.

She smiled with nothing but loathing before she attacked, punching him in the stomach, in the chest and finally on the chin. He caught her hand with one of his, snickering with enjoyment.

"Never thought I'd be doing this again," he admitted, pushing her harshly away from him.

She didn't fall, but regained her balance easily, observing him.

"Neither did I," she replied, ducking as he kicked up a leg, answering the movement by kicking one of hers out and hitting him in the stomach, making him fall back against the wall once more.

"Really?" he asked, meeting her as she approached him, both of them delivering and blocking a rapid series of punches before he got one perfectly aimed at her cheek and she spun around twice before hitting the cement. "Why's that?" he added, walking up to her as she got to her feet, grabbing her by the neck from behind and pulling her back against him, saying into her ear: "Because my heart is bleeding for you?"

"No," she said, reaching back and grabbing the wrist of the hand holding her and flipping him, making him land on his back at her feet. "Because he can't kill anymore," she filled in, stepping over him and placing one foot on either side of his head, reaching down and grabbing the collar of his T, bringing her arm back to deliver a killer punch. "Also, not your heart," she finished.

He smirked, quickly moving his hands up and making her legs fold at the knees, it being impossible for her to avert straddling his face and his tongue was hard against her crotch as he licked her pants in one long stroke. He could smell her arousal. Could almost taste it. His smirk broadened, his hands placing themselves at the small of her back, giving her another shove, making her go on all fours as he sat up and turned around, grabbing her as she was getting up and pushing her up against the nearest wall.

"You sure about that?" he murmured in her ear.

She managed to turn around, mostly because he let her, her gaze filled with disgust. He smiled at the sight of it, feeling her hands slide up his chest, her fingers anything but violent in that moment, before she gave him a push that sent him flying seven feet. He landed with a hard thud; he was chuckling as he propped himself up on his arms.

"Then I guess the only question is: who are you really fighting, love?" he said, watching her slowly approach him. "Me," he added. "Or him?"

She leaned over him, watching him for a few moments before delivering a punch to his nose. She hit him again. And again. She seemed to contemplate it, and finally rounded off with a fourth.

He thought she was done, but she grabbed him by the duster and pulled him to his feet, getting him moving in no tender manner.

"You wanna make small talk?" he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.

"I've no interest in making anything with you," she retorted.

He faced forward. He knew he was bleeding from a cut on his right brow, and his mouth felt swollen beyond recognition, but he was strangely elated. And he smiled again, ignoring the discomfort.

**x**

Buffy rose when the door of Giles' apartment was kicked open and the stakee was shoved through it. The Slayer followed. They were both sporting bruises and the vampiress felt her heart sink, unsure of why. She walked up to the abomination that was her former lover, eyeing him in silence. He had been wearing a gleeful smile, but under her gaze it diminished until there was not a trace of it left.

Her eyes narrowed and then she gave him a precise punch on the nose, turning from him and walking a few steps away, mainly because she wasn't sure she wouldn't hit him some more if she stayed anywhere too near to him.

Spike put one finger up with an expression speaking of his ability to just about control his aggravation.

"Can you girls _stop_ with the bloody punching already?" he requested.

"Maybe you should leave," the vampiress murmured.

"Hallelujah," Xander said, standing a few feet behind the vampiress.

"Stay out of it," Spike warned, eyes in the vampiress'.

"It's obvious you're not going to even try," she said.

"Try what? Try to behave? Try to sit still and be quiet? Try to bow my head in thanks that you're so bloody graciously letting me stay?!" he exclaimed.

"You don't think I have the right to expect that?" she asked.

"Of course you do, you have all the rights and I'm just _wrong_," he yelled. "You see, that's our problem, that's the problem we've had from the very beginning, you thinking this is something I can just rid myself of, when really, it's what I am. I'm not going to bloody change for anyone, and I'm certainly not going to bleeding well _try_ for you!"

"Then what do you think I should do with you? You think I'll just let you go _hunting_?"

"What, am I supposed to drink blood out of a mug, like some sodding cripple who's lost every instinct ever given to him? I will _not_ be crippled for _you_!"

"Then leave!"

"I will not!"

"Goddamnit, Spike!" she yelled, just as he was hit over the head from behind, a quizzical look placing itself on his face before he tumbled to the floor in an ungracious heap.

"Oddly liberating," the Slayer smirked, eyes in the vampiress'. "I have an idea."

**x**

"Hi, baby," Willow greeted Oz with a smile, receiving a kiss before he removed his jacket and pulled up a chair to sit down next to her.

"So," he said. "What're we doing?"

He frowned when they heard someone mumbling behind the large bookcases standing on the upper level of the library. Willow shook her head a little.

"I'm not entirely sure," she replied.

Giles came down the stairs, holding three books, stacked one on top of the other, all of them open, all of them heavy looking. He was reading from the top one, taking no notice to Oz's presence as he put the volumes down on the table to join a countless mountain of others.

"But I wonder..." Giles was saying. "Then again. Yes, yes. This might be... No, no. All wrong. But look, see here... Yes. Perhaps. No."

Suddenly he paused on a page he had just turned, staring at it for a long moment before picking the book up for an even closer look.

Oz and Willow exchanged a glance.

"Bloody hell," Giles nearly hissed.

Willow blinked, her hand reaching for Oz's.

"I'm scared," she whispered out of one corner of her mouth and Oz smiled a little, squeezing her hand comfortingly.

"Look at that!" Giles exclaimed, tossing the book unceremoniously on the table before the other two. "Notice anything familiar?"

Willow eyed the two lines running parallel to one another, surrounded by a mass of very small, printed text.

"Those are on the dagger," she said.

"Yes, only they are not a symbol," Giles stated. "They are a signature."

"A signature?" Oz inquired.

"Yes," Giles nodded. "Let's go back to the house. Immediately."


	26. Offering

**Chapter Twenty-Six: Offering**

Sire and Childe

"It's a forgery," Giles proclaimed in front of the assembled group, seated and standing around his living room.

"It's why we haven't been able to decipher the symbols properly," Willow said.

"It's an ancient code," Oz added.

"You're not permitted to replicate such a powerful magical object in absolute detail," Willow clarified. "It'll upset the balance."

The vampiress huffed.

"What won't?"

"What does this mean, exactly?" Xander asked.

"It means we have to find the original dagger," the Slayer concluded, looking at Giles, who gave a slight nod in confirmation.

There was a loud clanking noise which emanated from the bathroom, and everyone looked towards its origin, the silence stretching uneasily.

"What was that?" Giles finally asked, getting himself moving toward the doorway.

"We..." the Slayer began, following on his heels. "We didn't know what else to do with him," she finished as Giles' eyes landed on the form of the vampire, seated on the floor in front of the bathtub, heavy chains disappearing into the shadows underneath it, reappearing in coils around the faucet and pipes by the wall, binding him to his current position.

The vampire raised one restrained hand in a noncommittal greeting.

The Watcher took a step back, turning to the Slayer and then looking over her head at the vampiress, who tried a small smile: his face bore no trace of reciprocating it. He walked up to the front door and she reluctantly followed.

"_What_ are you thinking?" he demanded, once they were outside.

He wasn't yelling, but the anger in his voice hit her as if he had.

"Right this very second?" she said, her attempted innocence only serving to cloud his features over further, prompting her to drop it and try something more sincere as she added: "Giles, please."

"This is the thing that took you away. In my home."

"I know that," she replied quietly. "And I'm sorry. But... But I can't..."

She trailed off; but the way he observed her, how it ironed out the creases of his brow, made her understand that her emotions were showing clearly on her face. He sighed.

"He will stay in chains at all times," he said and a smile lit up her face. "I don't have to trust him," he added.

"No," she said, the smile lingering as she stepped into him, hugging him tight.

"And I don't have to like this," he insisted, making her let go and getting her gaze in his. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather... stake him?"

"No," she replied simply, turning around and heading back inside.

**x**

"Is that how I looked?" the vampiress heard the other Spike ask the Slayer as they observed the bound vampire through the doorway of the bathroom.

"No, you were actually _in_ the bathtub, hence looking even less threatening," the Slayer replied, both vampires making the same noise of contempt at the sentiment at the exact same time. "You hungry?" she added to the one on the bathroom floor. "Can I tempt you with a mug of...?"

"Close the bloody door," came the grumbled reply.

The vampiress stepped between Slayer and Vamp, closing the door behind her with a reassuring look at them as they seemed apt to protest.

She faced her sire feeling disappointment.

With him, for not owning up to the respect he should treat her with; but even more with herself, for expecting him to. He had torn down those expectations enough times now that she should have been taught the uselessness of building them up. He wasn't the kind of man to carry them, anyway, even if she did reduce them to the size of a penny: it wouldn't matter if they could fit in his pocket, he'd end up trading them in for something that in his opinion carried much greater value.

"This," he now said, moving his wrists the few centimeters that the chains allowed, finishing: "is sodding humiliating."

She merely smiled the trace of a smile, observing him as her mind raced for a sentence that wouldn't sound too studied, and at the same time wouldn't tell him exactly how much she wished things had been different, how much she would have wanted to stand at his side, instead of forcing him down before her in this absolutely disgraceful manner. But then, he had done it to her. Without remorse.

"Why didn't you finish her?" she asked. "I can smell her perfume on you, but no blood."

At first he looked perplexed, but then it seeped away and left was only annoyance. He wasn't going to reply, she realized.

She observed him for a long minute before she approached him. She barely reflected over her following action, the nail of her thumb biting through the skin of her left wrist, creating a shallow cut into the vein residing there.

She reached it out to him.

It took a few seconds for him to react as he was stubbornly keeping his eyes on the insides of the bathtub, but then his head snapped around, his gaze fastening on the offering hovering at eye level. He looked up at her, as though he wanted to make sure she wasn't holding a stake poised to perform. His gaze tangled with hers for one breathless beat, and then he moved his head forward, eyelids closing in anticipation, his lips parting as they latched on to her skin, his tongue gliding over the wound, teasing the life sustaining crimson to flow into his mouth, down his throat, and spread renewed energy through him. He had been in need of it for some time. She hadn't understood just how badly, until now. How long had it been since he fed?

Her free hand seemed to move very slowly of its own accord, her fingertips touching his forehead gently before sliding forward, into his tresses. The movement of his tongue against her skin stopped; unnecessary breaths caressed the spot instead. She didn't want to look at him, but knew he was looking at her. And then his cheek pressed against the palm of the hand belonging to the offered wrist – which had still been hanging in mid-air as though waiting for him to resume draining it, waiting for the sensation to begin once more, take hold, wrap around; that intoxicating notion of slipping into him. Of savoring it. Because it felt natural. Right.

His lips followed his cheek, placing a kiss on her lifeline.

She moved away then, still not looking at him, and fled out through the door, to the safety that wasn't him.

**x**

"And that's the plan," the Slayer finished, turning her head to the vampiress as the latter entered the room. She had wrapped one hand around her wounded wrist, trying to keep the guilt off her face.

"We have a plan?" she asked, learning how intrusive Spike's close surveying of her every move could be.

She ignored him with effort, waiting for the Slayer to reply.

"Willy's," she said.

The vampiress gave a nod, following her up to the front door, turning around to face Spike, who was close on her heel, but halted as she obstructed his path.

"Whatever you're thinking– " she began.

"None of my business, is it, love?" he cut her off, raising both hands in an evasive gesture before stepping past her and continuing after the Slayer.

The vampiress stood put for a second, then swirled around and hurried after him.

"Tell me what you're thinking," she said as she caught up with him.

He smirked.

"What _I'm_ thinking, or what I think _he's_ thinking?" he asked.

She urged her face into earnestly-pleading-expression and though she wasn't fooled for a second that he actually believed she thought it was necessary, she knew he appreciated the thoughtfulness she was showing in putting it on: no more expectations.

"I'm thinking whatever is going on between the two of you should be resolved," he replied. "Quickly," he added.

"Why?" she inquired curiously, holding his gaze and feeling how incredibly starved she was for having those eyes look at her.

Only, it wasn't those eyes she craved.

He smiled now.

"Because the current situation is doing neither of you any bloody good," he replied. "Is it?"

The question was one posed without any need for a real answer. One of those question marks that were simply thrown in to make her see it, and turn it on herself. And of course it wasn't doing her any good. The situation. Or the question mark.

"How do I resolve it?" she asked.

"That's where my powers end, pet," he answered with a smile. "Can't expect me to have an answer to everything."

She smiled back, giving him a small push.

"Are you _coming_?" the Slayer's voice broke the friendliness, tinged with a sharpness that made the vampiress meet the other woman's gaze with a rather meaningful cocking of an eyebrow.

The Slayer noticed it, and had no better response than to look skyward before turning around again.

**x**

Spike rested his forehead against the edge of the bathtub. The blood of his childe was a craving met that calmed his frazzled pride, stroked back the hairs that had been standing on end from the second he bought a ticket for America instead of Austria, and sedated his disbelief at his having brought himself into this situation.

But then – he remembered her. He remembered how she had enticed him – through some way not yet revealed to him – and how that enticement had led to him turning her, to him keeping her with him, to that damned kiss and to her tight and convivial places proving too tight and convivial to resist.

She had bewitched him with unspoken promises of somewhere he had never gone before, those hidden, unknown reaches of such a formidable enemy; and her eyes looking into his right before she surrendered herself to him, as though the part of her that wanted it, wanted him, was stronger than all those other parts that said he was a wrong.

And yet, she was judging him.

Yet she refused to acknowledge him, refused to embrace the truth of her sharing his nature.

He had seen her pupils dilate when she scented blood; he had sensed her yearning to experience the high of the hunt, and still she fought it. How did she think she would live? Then he realized that she wouldn't; which meant that it didn't matter either way. So what the bloody hell was the point of acting the saint bound for damnation: why not be the demon headed for home?

The girl that had escaped him danced into his mind and he swirled her right out again, banging his head against the cold porcelain of the tub in frustration.

It was easy to be wise in hindsight – looking at his actions on a string lined out behind him, and wondering how much better things wouldn't have been if he had taken a different turn at this one or that; wishing fervently that he could have been granted the foresight to understand exactly what his actions would come to mean, and that each and every one of them always had an impact on his existence; no matter how little he wanted to believe in higher power or fate or any of that dullness. If only he could teach himself to learn from his mistakes.

He smirked to himself.

What would be the fun in that?

What had she said?

_Say a person wants to change, and has the potential to change, but won't, because they don't know how._

He _knew_ how. He knew how she would have him be, but she was daft if she thought he would ever be less than what he was for her. It was baffling how hard she was holding onto her humanity. If she would simply allow it to slip away she would realize the fine line between kill or be killed. Bloody hell, humans walked around eating the meat of soulless animals, even though the notion of anything being soulless was completely contradictory to every speck of evidence nature provided them with. I think, therefore I bleeding well _feel_!

A growl escaped him, his fists clenching in aggravation.

She was so stubborn.

Why couldn't she turn her advice on herself? Couldn't she see how bloody incredible her future would be in her new form if she simply let go of all the old that was like a dead weight around her ankles? If she would only move forward, move into what she had become, and not shy away from it, she would experience true freedom. She would be able to break away from all the things that were now holding her back and she would discover herself, and the world, and realize just what a bloody marvelous destination it was, instead of pulling away from it, afraid to take part in it, afraid what might happen if she sought her rightful place in it.

But, she had enjoyed London.

A tentative smile appeared on his mouth, but he smothered it instantly, opening his eyes and looking at the tiled floor he was confined to. A wave of anger smashed against his ribs. _She_ had done this to him. _She_ was the reason he was in this position. She should have her sodding face bashed in for all the good she had done him, the stupid hag!

He drew a breath, letting it out slowly, the burning sensation that flowed against the walls of his lungs at the unwanted presence of air serving as a tranquilizer for all the other emotions, giving him something to focus on.

"Bloody bint," he grumbled.

And what was with the sodding grudge she was holding? That useless, pointless fight they had had what felt like years ago now, why the hell couldn't she just forget it already? Making her jump to conclusions about why he was there. Like all he wanted was to see her dead. It bloody wasn't. But did she give him even the slightest chance to open his mouth and state that fact? No. She locked him up in rooms thinking all she had to do was command him to stay and he would wag his tail and be happy she wasn't bitch-slapping him around the sodding apartment!

He drew another breath.

She had been yelling at him, too, on top of that hill, it hadn't been a one-sided argument where he was the only one telling somebody off. She had done her share. He couldn't even remember what they had been sodding screaming about anyway.

Zack.

Guilt washed through him, startling him with its unanticipated arrival. Its companion was a prickling shame which lodged itself at the base of his throat and choked him, producing another growl. There wouldn't have been a reason for him to drag Zack into it if she'd only listened to him and left on her own.

_Why can't you just accept me?_

Why couldn't _she_ just accept _him_?

No, they were doomed to walk in circles, so he had wanted her away from him, had wanted to get himself back on track. Only he had chased after her.

He had chased her.

Because he had wanted the taste of her. This lightness that spread through him for every minute that her blood worked its way into him, throughout him, was uncontested, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He had been certain that the elation would subside once she drank her first mouthful of him in that church, but it hadn't. It was _her_. Her taste.

Buffy.

Her fingers pushing through his hair came back in a sensation that raked goose bumps down his spine.

This time his forehead gave a low thud as it hit the edge of the tub.

"Give it up," he grumbled.

**x**

Willy nearly dropped the bottle he was holding as the doublets of the Slayer walked through his door. He glanced around at his clientele, checking to see if any of them seemed agitated enough to leave and take their much welcomed business with them. None seemed inclined. In fact, most simply kept staring into their glass, looking as though they were searching for a memory lost at the bottom of another pint in another bar sometime long ago.

The two Slayers and Spike stopped in front of the bar counter, one of the Slayer's offering him a smile while the other's face settled into something not far from a threat.

"Evening," he tried.

"My friends were in here a while back," the smiling Slayer said. "They wanted information and you gave it to them, but they seem to think you left some things out."

"I swear to God," he protested, putting the bottle down and holding up his hands.

He thought the threatening expression on the other Slayer's face was beginning to darken and he wondered if she actually believed in God. Perhaps she was very religious, seeing how she was always carrying crosses around and fighting the spawn of evil all day long, and here he had gone and insulted the Big Man.

"I-I mean," he stammered. "I swear to God – _amen_."

Spike's mouth curled in a small smirk. Willy noticed it, but chose to ignore it.

"Come on," he pleaded to the smiley one, "you _know_ I wouldn't pull a fast one on you. Especially when a guy is talking about something as serious as the world ending."

"How did you know that?" the threatening one snapped.

"If the Mark of Nebulon is involved, it has to be serious. And with the whole Slayer being turned..."

He trailed off, his eyes widening as he looked back at the smiling one, who wasn't smiling anymore, but was beginning to look rather uneasy. So, she was the Buffy he had been dealing with for the past few years, wielding her righteousness and kicking down doors as though they would fix themselves in the morning. And now, here she was, trotting the lanes of the dark side while still trying to keep her halo in place. How typical.

"My, my," he murmured and she looked away from him, glancing around the bar to hide her discomfort.

The slamming down of a threatening palm – ready to turn into a fist, no doubt – brought his eyes back in the other Slayer's and he realized that she must be the real deal. And the Spike with her wasn't the same as the one who had brought that dark-haired beauty into the bar a couple of times, buying her the very best of blood. He wished he could have known more about what had brought them all together, and where this other duo had sprung from, but he put a leash on his tongue. They weren't there to chat.

"I told you everything I know," he said firmly, meeting the Slayer's gaze and keeping it there this time.

He was telling the truth.

"Then tell us what the guy looked like," Spike said.

"And what species he was," the Slayer filled in.

"Species?" Willy asked.

"Yes," the Slayer replied slowly.

"He was human," Willy answered.

"You said he ordered blood," the Slayer remarked sharply and he smiled, putting both hands up.

"I ask no questions. You'd be surprised what people down in here," he said.

"Then tell us what the guy looked like," Spike repeated.

Willy wrinkled his brow in thought.

"Kind of short. A bit stocky, I guess. Glasses. Oh, and he was wearing one of those hats hunters wear. You know, with the things on the sides covering your ears. It was red. And he had a really nice ring. Looked a bit ornate for a wedding ring, but it was on the right finger, so. It was silver, with a blue stone in it."

"What did he have on?" the vampiress inquired.

"It was actually sort of strange. A dark grey suit. And that hat."

The three left with a few nods of thanks, the door closing behind them. Willy wondered if they were off to save the world, and how one went about it, if one had to. It seemed quite the undertaking, really. Could his answer actually have helped? Had he just helped them save the world? That would really be something.

He grabbed the bottle and replaced it in its worn spot, grabbing a trusted piece of cloth and beginning to wipe the bar counter.

The vampiress turned to the other two once they were out on the sidewalk.

"Chicago or Los Angeles," Spike said and the Slayer nodded.

"We'll need to split up," she said.

"No," the vampiress disagreed, "we won't."

**x**

She knocked gingerly on the door; then waited. She felt peculiar. As though a part of her was somewhere else, removed from all of this, already safe and peaceful, having made all the right decisions and thereby having earned the rest it had been granted. But what was right to her wouldn't be right to the person about to open the door, and so rest seemed like a faraway concept.

Angel's eyes fastened in hers and for a long moment she thought he wouldn't smile, but then the expression tentatively formed and he stepped out of the way. She walked inside and looked around at all the familiar belongings of his that she had, not so very long ago, considered trivial. Now they were just a comb, a belt, a shoe. She felt tenderness towards them, but didn't treasure them as she had before, when everything that was his seemed the most important pieces that made up her everyday.

She looked at him and warmth swelled in her bosom until she thought it would rise to form tears. But it didn't. She wanted to tell him how she would always love him, and what they had had, but it seemed nothing short of condescending. He knew it so well already.

"We need your help," she said instead.

**x**

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike grumbled as his parallel universe twin walked into the room. He was carrying a mug declaring 'World's Best Librarian' and the vampire didn't need two guesses to conclude what was in it. "Don't you even bloody try feeding me that poison; I'd rather be a skeleton, thank you."

The other cocked an eyebrow, having a seat on the toilet, taking a mouthful of the vile stuff, making Spike shudder.

"Where's Buffy?"

"The Slayer..."

"I don't give a damn about the Slayer. Where's _Buffy_?"

The other had a small smile occur on his mouth which drove hard nails of anger into Spike's chest, making him tense up completely.

"She said you can't kill anymore," he went for the sorest spot he could think of, turning disgusted eyes on the mug in the other's hands. "What's that all about?"

"Long story."

"I know you can neaten it for me," Spike remarked, a smirk he couldn't suppress appearing on his lips.

"Government blokes put a chip in my head," the other humored him. "Stops me from hurting anything living. Bloody hell," he shook his head. "'S no fun."

Spike nodded slowly.

"And now you're working with the Slayer and her minions, yeah? Rescuing innocents and bloody interfering in honestly crafted schemes by good men of the trade? Doesn't it make you feel... whipped?"

The other eyed him without making even the slightest sign that he was going to answer, but as Spike was beginning to give up any hope, the other said:

"Can be pleasurable, if in the right context."

Spike laughed, unable to keep it down.

"And you'd have her hold the whip, then?" he asked, growing serious. "Don't even start denying it. You look at her the way I feel about Dru."

The other observed him intently at that and for some reason he raised a shoulder in a shrug. He had no idea what it was supposed to stand for, or why he did it, but he couldn't think of anything to say, and something seemed needed to fill the silence, since there didn't seem to be a response coming from the other this time.

"Why did you turn her?" it then came, quietly.

Spike couldn't meet his gaze for some reason, looking down at the black polish, which had previously covered his nails and was now nearly all chipped off.

"Have you even asked yourself that question, or has it all been about why she chose to find you?" the other pressed.

"Of course I've bloody well asked it," Spike growled, turning an incensed glare at the other. "Every other second I ask it. I think how different things would've been if I hadn't. If I'd let her go."

"But you didn't. Why?"

"I had her. She was right _there_. Open. Willing. She _wanted_ me."

"What if she didn't?"

"She did."

"What if you wanted her so much it made you think you saw her wanting you, when really you were just seeing yourself and your desires reflected in her? It'd justify turning her, wouldn't it? It'd make it that much easier to dismiss as a bloody mistake in the morning. You blame it all on her, but what the hell were you thinking? You should've let her go. Now she's gonna bloody well die 'cause the world is being bloody ripped apart thanks to a decision _you_ made!"

If he could have he would have gotten to his feet in the moment that the other did, and faced him, and hit him across the jaw for his bleeding meddling.

"I didn't want her," he stated.

"Trust me," the other replied, "you did. And when you realize just how much, you're gonna regret ever biting her, 'cause now you're gonna lose her, and there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it."

"I didn't come here to stop it," Spike bit.

The other watched him again, then turned from him with something dangerously close to disappointment on his face.

"Then you don't deserve her," he heard him say, right before the door slammed shut behind him.

**x**

Buffy wasn't certain, even when she grabbed the keys for the chains, of whether what she was about to do was the right thing, but she felt they really had no time to lose and so she would place the choice with him and simplify the matter for herself.

She walked into the bathroom with as much self-assuredness that she could muster, ignoring the soft longing inside to meet his eyes as she knelt next to him, their knees touching gently, his closeness making her hasten her movements until her fingers were practically trembling with the anticipation of getting the lock undone. She was leaning over the tub, the padlock located where the chains embraced the pipes behind it. She knew he was taking her in and it wasn't even that she could feel his gaze sliding over her form so much as it was her feeling so sure of his character by now that she had little doubt exactly where his eyes were directed.

She finished, sitting back and dragging the chains loose, Spike shaking his hands free but before he could do anything she was on her feet and stepping away from him. He remained seated, looking up at her quizzically.

"We're leaving," she declared.

"Are you?" he replied smoothly.

"Are you coming?" she more or less snapped, raising her eyebrows.

He smiled then, and rose.


	27. Direction

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: Direction**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

The plane ride went without hassle, but it was a new and inventive kind of torture sent her by some not so very benevolent power to have to sit and watch the vampiress and her sire interact.

He was thawing, for some reason, and the icicles which had so protectively been surrounding his every glance were melting. He even smiled, once or twice. He wasn't comfortable, though, she could see that, and she kept expecting him to have a complete and utter eruption over the fact that the vampiress and other Spike were actually on quite friendly terms, a fact which was a good thing in the Slayer's book: while the leather embracing, up-to-no-good-and-eager-to-show-it undead was anywhere near her, the more eyes watching out for the vampiress the better. She complicated paradox of that thought was too much for her to even attempt to analyze and so she decided to be satisfied with the feeling of having the upper hand on the sire vampire.

The Slayer couldn't make his motive out. She couldn't put her finger on the why yet. It seemed unlikely that a sense of obligation would be the prominent fuel for his actions. She still felt as though something was missing to the equation, and no matter how she turned it over in her mind, she couldn't make the ends meet. They were dangling around her head, taunting her with how she couldn't connect them. She decided to ignore them, feeling quite certain that they would have to fess up sooner or later and do the job all by themselves.

As they stepped out of the airport, a brisk wind ensconced them all, making the Slayer wrap her arms around her, wishing she could have had something better to stand the cold than the rather thin leather jacket she had on.

"Where do we start?" the vampiress asked.

"The Buckaroo," both Spikes replied, exchanging rather knowing looks before one of them raised his arm, hailing a cab.

**x**

The Buckaroo had absolutely nothing to do with the Wild West, or horses, or people riding them. Though it was sandy like a desert, it was hot and humid like a rainforest, and there was nothing in the décor that aided the Slayer in her attempt to divine what had persuaded its owner to give it its current name.

The space hosting the bar and restaurant was comfortable in size and lit with hundreds of old-fashioned lanterns of varying size hanging in the ceiling. The tables and chairs were made of glass and set firmly into the sandy floor; inside the table-tops swam fish of different eye-catching color and size, zipping in and out of beautifully shaped rocks and coral, or hiding among sea weed and anemones. The bar was also made entirely out of glass, boasting a collection of lobsters, crayfish and prawns.

The Slayer and vampiress stared at the impressive interior, sweat beginning to pearl on the Slayer's brow as the two Spikes led the way to the back where they tapped on a door, waiting for a small window to open. It was made of tainted, green glass and was the size of a face. Soon enough it slid to the left and a face poked through it, assuring them that the body going with it was of the larger and more aggressive variety. The face looked disgruntled.

"Yeah?" it growled.

"We're here to see Octavius," the Spike on the left said.

"No one here by that name," the face replied, about to close the window when the Spike on the right shoved one hand through the hole, stopping it.

"Octavius Arrera," he said. "Tell him Spike requests an audience."

The face looked from one to the other before it disappeared with a huff.

**x**

"My God, what happened to _you_?" the demon exclaimed heartily as he embraced first one Spike and then the other, looking at both of them with a wide grin. He had lightly blue-tainted skin and sea-weed green hair that was falling in thick locks over his shoulders. He was quite handsome, in an aquatic sort of way. "Splitting potion?" he inquired further. "Someone slip you a thunderbolt drug?"

"Nothing like that," one vampire replied and the Slayer felt oddly unsure of who was who.

Then her eyes met the other vampire's gaze, and instantly she felt that there was nothing to worry about as she knew him without a moment's hesitation. He rested his eyes in hers before adding to the other vampire's statement:

"Something worse, in a way."

She gave him a small smile, stepping forward.

"We're looking for a man that is probably trying to pawn something that belongs to us," she said, Octavius' impossibly green eyes fastening in hers. "The Mark of Nebulon."

He observed her for a very long moment, his thin fingers clenching and unclenching in what seemed like slow motion before he waved his arms in the air with one single flourish of a movement and strode up to a rounded couch standing in a corner. It was made of midnight blue velvet, and didn't make a sound as it received the demon's gangly form. When he smiled he showed uneven teeth, which glinted in the dim light of the room.

The floor of this space was sandy as well, and the Slayer could have sworn she saw something stir its grains right by her foot, but she realized it would most likely offend their host if she was to comment on it, and so she kept quiet. It truly was hot in there; she felt trickles of sweat slipping down along her spine and tried to focus away from the discomfort, and wait for the demon to offer his comment. He finally did.

"The Mark belongs to no one," he said. "It exists for itself alone. You have been told its history."

When all four of their faces expressed their ignorance he smiled again, offering them a seat by way of a graceful movement with one hand.

"The dagger was forged by King Nebulon, ruler of Nac'Ha'Taab – one of the lower hell-dimensions. He kept his crown for an unsubstantiated number of years until his brother had him exiled through brutal force, taking over the crown. To find a way back into court, the King brought together gold and silver which had been mined near the very center of Earth, weaving the two metals into a third known to the demon world as Grha'Ctah – loosely it translates into 'resting within'. The pattern of the dagger spelled a curse of darkness and deceit, but only the King knew of it, for he hid it well among a second pattern forming a recognized Blessing.

"He gave the dagger as a peace offering to his brother, who accepted him back into court as a personal adviser to the crown. The brother carried the dagger with him at all times – growing more and more paranoid for every day that passed – until one day his daughter entered his bed chambers to rouse him from sleep and he killed her with one deep stab to her throat. Once the dagger had tasted blood, it grew ever thirstier for it, and the brother's madness escalated. It did not stop until he had murdered his wife, his two sons and half of the noblemen tending to him at court, at which point he turned the blade upon himself."

"How uplifting," the vampiress said, both Spikes smirking at the same time.

It was rather uncanny, but the Slayer had to smile as well.

"It craves carnage," Octavius stated. "If it is out of your hands, it is for a reason."

"We need it for a sacrifice," the vampiress said.

"How big a sacrifice?" the demon asked. "It is drawn to battle fields. It has featured in many a hand of the most respected of warriors. Alexander the Great. Napoleon Bonaparte. Elizabeth the First. If your quest is not significant enough, it would not linger."

"You make it sound like it can think for itself," the Slayer remarked.

"It can," Octavius replied. "It has a soul."

The Slayer's eyebrows rose in skepticism and the demon smiled gently.

"You don't believe that to be possible," he said and suddenly he was scrutinizing her in a way that made her feel completely naked.

She frowned, but as she was about to open her mouth and reply he rose to his feet.

"I know nothing of anyone in possession of the object," he stated. "But I shall send you on to a good friend of mine who might possess the information you seek. Her name is Rosa."

**x**

The diner was charming; set in a pale-blue fifties interior with yellow and red detailing, linoleum floors and a speck free, silver chrome counter top. There was only one costumer there at this time of night, and he was asleep, his head resting next to his half-finished cup of coffee.

In response to the merry jingle of the bell above the door, a lady came into view. She was plump, had dark brown hair with a few streaks of gray and a pleasant smile.

"What can I do you folks for?" she asked in a slow southern accent.

She looked like one of the nurses who had spoken to the Slayer on the night that her mother passed away, and a chill came over her which somehow wasn't unpleasant. As though the memory, so painful in making, now served as a corner stone of the Slayer's personality. She frowned at the fuzzy recognition of this fact, but was deterred from her musings as the Spike at her side said:

"You Rosa?"

"Why, I sure am," the lady replied in her warm, southern accent. "And who might you be?"

"We're looking for a man," the vampiress said, stepping up to the counter and continuing with describing the person they were trying to find.

Rosa listened with a slight wrinkle between her brows.

"He ain't done nothin' bad, has he?"

"We hope not," the Slayer said. "He has something we need. We're hoping he hasn't gotten rid of it."

"I know the person in question. He's come in here, oh, three- maybe four times in the last few days. Always has a glass of water and a few slices of bacon and nothin' else. Not even a free cuppa coffee. And the last time he was in here he had barely sat down before he was out the door like a lightnin' bolt. It was downright odd."

"Downright odd," the other Spike repeated silently, looking thoughtfully at Rosa before he added: "Any idea where we might find him? Any at all would be helpful."

"Well, no," she replied regretfully. "But if I was to send you off anywhere tonight, it'd be to see Lenny. He's my son. He'll know if your ...friend... has tried to sell the item you mentioned."

"That's very kind of you," the Slayer said.

"Anything for Occie," Rosa smiled. "Told me to be forthcoming with you folks."

The vampires smirked at each other at that, following Rosa as she gestured for them to follow her, showing them through a door and into the storage area.

**x**

It was crammed full of all sorts and sizes of boxes. There seemed to be no shelves – the boxes were simply stacked one on top of another on the concrete floor. Some towered above their heads in silent warning of their instability and it seemed a single misstep might bury them all in a slide of cardboard.

"Hellooo up there!"

The voice was more like a squeak and they all halted as one, looking at each other and then around the room.

"I _said_: _up_ there! It would suggest that you should look _down_!"

They did.

On the corner of a fairly large box, one leg on either side, dangling in the air, sat a man no taller than a middle-finger. He had light brown hair, a long brown beard and was wearing a suit clearly made out of kitchen towels. It didn't fit him at all, but he seemed unconscious of it, and was wearing a big smile in welcome.

"Hellooo!" he repeated, sounding oddly like a smurf and it was all the Slayer could do not to start giggling hysterically.

"He-hello. Hi. Hello," the all replied, not entirely convinced of the little-little-little person's innocent character.

He jumped to his feet, looking up at them as he placed a pair of spectacles on his nose, squinting at them.

"Are you Rosa's son?" the Slayer inquired, debating whether to lean forward and get her nose at his level, or if this might be considered condescending.

"Yes! _How_ did you _know_?" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Well... she told us," the Slayer replied and he nodded.

"That makes sense," he said. "What brings _you_ to this neck of the woods? Although, of course, it is neither a neck, as it is _im_possible for a building to have a neck; well, unless it was shaped as a man _with_ a neck, which this building is _not_; and, also, it sure isn't near _an_ything even _re_sembling a wood, all of which brings me to the con_clu_sion that my question was phrased _in_adequately, wouldn't you agree? Yes, of course, of course you would, all of you look sp_len_didly intelligent, apart from the two gentlemen dressed in _pre_cisely the same outfit, which might be a little confusing for your female companions. Perhaps a change of sh_irt _color would be pre_fer_able?"

"We're looking for the Mark of Nebulon," Spike said, ignoring the last query posed to them all.

"Ah, I see," Lenny stated. "Sir Intagar is the giddy owner of the ar_ti_fact, or so I've been told."

"Where can we find him?" the vampiress inquired.

"There's no point in going to him," Spike replied in Lenny's stead. "He's a renowned antiques dealer and he'll only renegotiate with the person who sold it to him. If he still has it."

"So," the vampiress sighed.

"So, we still have to track Hunting Cap down," the Slayer filled in.

"I have the add_ress_ where you can find him, if it will help," Lenny piped up and soon he had four pairs of eyes back on him.


	28. Room

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Room**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

They reached the small hotel just as the sky was paling from black to indigo. It had taken them nearly half an hour to get there and they had spent most of their cash on the taxi ride, but the spot alone made it seem worth it. Lake Michigan scented the air with moist freshness and the forest enclosing the location stood proud and sweet-smelling around them. The night was still, holding its breath, as though the approaching morning was coming as a surprise.

The Slayer felt something static in the air, making the hairs on her neck stand up, and she looked behind them as they stepped through the wide, wooden door of the two-story building. There were no eyes glinting in the shadows, no sign of anything foreign observing them, and yet she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

The lobby was a miniscule square shape, which somehow managed to host the reception desk along one wall – a green curtain hanging in front of a doorway behind it, looking as if, at any moment, it would be pushed aside by someone jumping out yelling 'ta-dah!'. Buffy didn't like it. A stool stood to the right of the door, a pay phone being hosted in a niche above it. To the left an airy doorway showed a staircase disappearing up, as well as one disappearing down.

When she turned her head back to the reception desk, she was surprised to see a man standing behind it; no noisy, theatrical entrance, but an eerie appearance out of thin air: she couldn't decide which was worse. His face was a bad imitation of Droopy the Dog and his head was suffering from a horrific cut, tufts of hair sticking out of the man's scalp like some wayward bush sprouting roots where no roots should be. His eyes were watery and gray and his whole appearance spoke more of on-the-brink-of-snapping-mentally undertaker than it did someone holding a position in public service.

"Hello," he said without feeling. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for a bloke by the name of Dexter Maury," Spike said.

"Haven't seen him since yesterday," the concierge muttered.

"Did he check _out_ yesterday?" Spike wondered drily, Buffy giving him a light kick with one heel and he raised his shoulders. "Would explain it, wouldn't it?"

She gave him a look.

"Mr. Maury has paid for his room until the end of the week – that's _Sunday_," the concierge drawled, both of the Spikes eyebrows rising at his tone, but the Slayer had to smirk. "Whether he sees fit to turn up or not is something I can't vouch for."

"We'd like two rooms," the vampiress stated, walking up to the counter.

It was Buffy's turn to raise her eyebrows, suddenly feeling light goose-bumps spread down her arms for no apparent reason apart from the thought that rushed through her head of sharing a room with Spike. She was unsure of how she felt about that prospect.

The vampiress paid, grabbed their keys and motioned them to follow her as she headed up the stairs.

Buffy moved at the same time as Spike, bumping into him and smiling apologetically, shaking her head slightly at herself as she climbed the steps in the wake of the vampiress. They stopped in front of the doors to room number 20 and what they could only presume to be 21 as it only had a number two on the door.

The vampiress handed one of the keys to Spike before she turned and unlocked the door of room 20, heading inside with a look at the Slayer, which clearly told her to follow her.

"Oh," Buffy said, biting her cheek with aggravation at herself before she smiled sheepishly at Spike and gave a slight shrug, following the vampiress and closing the door behind them, drawing a steadying breath. "Idiot," she grumbled.

**x**

The vampire threw himself on one of the beds, watching Spike pull the thick curtains in front of the window, making sure no slits were letting in the approaching daylight, before he turned to him.

"Well, isn't this a merry arrangement," the vampire muttered, lying on his back.

There were some oddly shaped stains in the ceiling and a slightly funky smell coming off the mattress, but it was there because of age rather than funny-business, and so there didn't seem to be much to do about it.

"Not my first choice either," Spike remarked, sitting down in the armchair standing in one corner of the room.

"At least you're me and not _William_," the vampire said, a visible shiver going through him at the mere thought. "Imagine being trapped in a room with that git."

Spike smirked.

The other sat up, eyeing him intently before shaking his head.

"It's bullocks, what they've done," he stated with vehemence. "The buggering chip," he clarified. "They think they can control us with bloody contraptions? Wish I knew where it was. I'd get it out alright. Then you and me could have us some real..."

"It's not working," Spike interrupted, sinking back in the chair.

The other stared at him.

"Beg your pardon?" he asked.

"It isn't working," Spike repeated. "Must be 'cause of the different universes bit. I can hit Buffy. In our universe I can't hit anything. Well, apart from hell-dwellers."

"So go. Hit her; get some aggravations out. She wants to hit you, I can bleeding well testify to that."

Spike smirked, but it faded and he took his eyes out of the others.

"You're afraid what she'll do to you if she finds out," the other finally deduced, silently. "Or maybe, what she won't do."

"She's different here," Spike murmured. "It's like she's forgotten..."

He trailed off, the other vampire's eyes narrowing.

"What? How to be a buggering pain up your ass?"

Spike smirked.

"She wouldn't be the bloody Slayer if she forgot how to be a buggering pain up my ass," he remarked, the other cocking an eyebrow in recognition of that truth. "But I don't want it to go away."

"Don't want what to go away?"

"I don't know," Spike shrugged, suddenly feeling extraordinarily pathetic.

The other smiled widely.

"You've noticed it, then, have you," he more or less stated.

"What?" Spike murmured, not liking the other's self-assuredness or the way he kept the smile on while shaking his head in a very ironic way. "And what about you?" he therefore turned the topic around.

"Me? If she'd have me, I wouldn't bloody hesitate," the other replied.

"She wouldn't," Spike stated with a conviction that seemed to have nothing to do with his own relationship with the Slayer.

"Ohh," the vampire mocked, getting to his feet. "No need to get all possessive like." He looked around as if in search of something. "So," he said. "No mini-bar?"

**x**

The vampiress uttered a sound of disgust, tossing her pillow off the bed and into a corner of the room, making the Slayer turn a wondering look her way.

"Can't you smell that?" she asked. "It's like someone rubbed their dirty-…"

"Spare me the details, please," Buffy interrupted.

"...-_feet_ all over it," the vampiress finished, eyeing the other for a moment before adding: "You'd have to be closer, I suppose."

Buffy thought she could detect a hint of smugness in her voice. It made her turn from the window to look fully at the vampiress.

"Is it that great, being like you are?"

The vampiress smirked a little and the Slayer thought it unnerving how alike it seemed to be the expression usually worn by the other Spike.

"Yeah, well, there have been a few perks," the vampiress remarked. "I mean, sure, you have stamina, but we have... Can't really explain it," the vampiress sighed wistfully, stretching herself out on the bed. "The things he does with his hands let me tell you."

"Might be good _not_ to think of what he does with his anything since his anything shouldn't come anywhere near you, or am I wrong?" the Slayer stopped her.

She unzipped her boots and kicked them off before lying down, snuggling under the covers and allowing relaxation to tentatively begin its journey into her limbs.

"You're not wrong," the vampiress murmured after a few minutes of silence. "But you have no idea..."

"Don't want even a clue," the Slayer stopped her again.

The vampiress smiled through the darkness, turning her head to look at the other.

"Sure, whatever you say," she then agreed. "Guess you already have a pretty good idea, what with all the times you've fought him and stuff, right?" she added lightly.

The relaxation hardened into rigidity and the Slayer opened her eyes to look at the other, drawing a breath to reply; but the vampiress had closed her eyes and Buffy decided that the topic would do better to be dropped completely.

**x**

Buffy woke an hour later and after ten minutes she gave up on going back to sleep, pulled her boots back on and headed downstairs. Droopy was nowhere to be seen and the lobby was empty. She headed out through the front door, stepping off the large wraparound porch and walking across the small stretch of lawn taking her into the mass of trees that surrounded the grounds of the hotel. Most of them were pine, their heavy scent filling her nostrils, making her think of childhood days when the Summers family had gone camping, something Dawn had loved but she had seen as nothing but a weekend away from all the life-altering things that were bound to happen to her click while she wasn't there to take part or even bear witness. She drew another lungful of air and smiled to herself.

Something on the ground drew her attention to it and she stopped; her brow furrowing. She had a quick, inconspicuous glance around and then continued on her way.

**x**

Spike opened his eyes slowly, the face of the Slayer filling up his view, making him start.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, struggling into a seated position, the covers being tangled up with his legs and left arm as if he had been dreaming and tossing and turning.

He never dreamed, hence he never tossed or turned.

"Sorry," the Slayer said quietly, sounding as if she didn't mean it at all. He glared at her, dragging a hand over his sleepy face. "I think Dexter may be in trouble," she informed.

"What time is it?"

"It's almost twelve."

"Twelve _noon_? You're waking me up at _noon_ now?"

"Jeez, you're cranky in the morning," she remarked.

"Go away," he muttered, lying back down and pulling the covers up to his neck.

"I wouldn't have woken you for no good reason," she said. "I mean... there's a reason I got an extra key from the desk and snuck in here and sat down and wasted about seven minutes trying to wake you up. Anyone ever tell you, you sleep like the dead?"

He had no defenses against the smile that formed on his mouth at her matter-of-fact tone. He lay on his back, turning his head to meet her gaze.

"So, you think Dex may be in trouble?"

She furrowed her brow.

"Well, I'm not about to _force_ you to listen."

"Then why did you bloody _wake_ me?" he demanded with a glare.

"I thought you'd want to know as soon as I had confirmation. Giles just gave it."

"Thoughtful of you."

"Well, _I_ would've thought so," she huffed, getting to her feet.

"I'll remember that the next time I get confirmation from Giles," Spike grumbled, turning his back on her.

"Fine, sleep on."

She turned around and as she headed back up to the door he glanced over his shoulder to watch her go, her hair moving in soft locks over her shoulders as she turned the knob and disappearing through the opening. He blinked, the only trace of it not having been a strangely real dream being the lingering scent of musk and vanilla.

**x**

Buffy had just sat down on one of the chairs in the basement seating room, which lacked any light and was occupied by a group of dodgy looking Banter demons, when Spike had a seat on the sofa next to her. She met his gaze with a small smile on, and he returned it.

"I'm listening," he said.


	29. Stolen

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stolen**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

"It was a coin," Buffy explained, her three companions sitting around the hotel room shared by the vampires; the newly awakened ones listening to her recount of the morning's activities with interest. "I thought I recognized it, and Giles said that it's only used by assassins in the underworld. Like they have their own currency or something."

"If they're good enough," the other vampire said, Spike's jaw setting in agreement before he looked at the Slayer.

"Seems they're here," she said. "And I know it might have been dropped by a previous customer or a traveler or whatever. Might even have belonged to a tradesman of some sort. But it might not. And I think that the readier we are for Not, the better."

"Still no sign of him?" the vampiress asked.

"No," the Slayer replied. "But he'll show. I can feel it. We just have to make sure nothing happens to him once he does. Whatever gave him the heebee's at Rosa's, he got them for a good reason. We should check out the closest stretch of forest, do a sweep around the premises and keep a keen eye out for anything that seems out of place."

"Sun's still up," the vampire remarked.

The Slayer looked at him.

"Yes. Let's have some dinner, shall we?" she said.

He looked rather disgruntled at that.

**x**

"It isn't that bad," Spike assured, taking his mug filled with pig's blood out of the microwave.

They were in the downstairs 'restaurant', consisting of one room, two tables, a handful of chairs, a stove, a small fridge and the microwave. Not exactly fine dining, but it was good enough.

"It's dead food," the other vampire replied to Spike's sentiment, shuddering. "It's still, un-flowing, dead food."

"It isn't that bad," the vampiress chimed in, smiling tryingly at her sire as she handed him his mug, bringing hers to her lips.

The Slayer watched her for a moment, then looked away, focusing on her cold salmon.

"It isn't that good, either," the vampire grumbled, staring into the mug with unhidden disgust. "I bloody can't," he stated, setting the mug down.

"You know, I can actually see you as a pretty nice skeleton," the vampiress remarked. "There's a look that would suit you. Might ruin the whole effect of the duster, but..."

He glanced at her darkly, but she merely smiled sweetly, handing him the mug again. He observed the liquid for another long moment, then brought the mug to his lips, tilted his head back and downed the whole thing in a series of hard, contracted gulps. When he was finished he looked ill.

"There you go," Spike said, smirking ever so slightly. "Wasn't that bad."

**x**

They decided to scour the landscape near the hotel, going in search of every conceivable, as well as inconceivable, spot for further clues as to who or what they were dealing with, the two Buffys heading off in one direction while the two vampires walked in the other.

They rendezvoused in front of the steps to the porch, half an hour later and none the wiser. Buffy felt Spike's eyes resting on her as they trudged up the steps and had a seat in the cushioned lawn-furniture which had been placed there, and as she sank deep into the softness beneath her, her body relaxing with a sigh of relief, Spike leaned forward.

"Should get some sleep, love," he murmured.

His voice was like something from a dream, beckoning her. She snapped out of it, giving him a slight look.

"I'm not tired," she deflected his statement, but a second later a yawn betrayed her.

He smirked.

She sighed, getting to her feet.

"Fine," she muttered. "Come get me in two hours."

She said the last part to the vampiress, trusting her more to actually listen to the instruction than what she trusted Spike to honor her wishes. He would probably let her sleep until she woke by her own accord, the miscreant.

But it was the sweetest sensation, once she could crawl under the sheets and pull them up to her chin. Sleep settled itself like a well-known friend behind her eyes; breathing its calm across her forehead and making her drift an inch above her pillow. That sense of weightlessness was the most soothing sensation of all, taking away the responsibilities and allowing her to forget how heavy her body could feel. That was why she didn't like sleeping anymore. Waking was like digging herself out of her grave, over and over.

But here, in this place, with the seventeen year old slayer vampire replica of herself downstairs, her grave seemed so very far away. And perhaps she wouldn't have to revisit it when waking this time. Perhaps.

Distantly she heard a door open and close. She barely registered it, being too close to a state of peace to be led from it. But then a new sensation filtered through the burgundy veil of rest; a hand placing itself on her left wrist and moving slowly, languidly up her arm. She realized she must've been lying on her side, because when the hand reached her shoulder it gave a soft push and made her turn over on her back.

"Buffy," a voice said.

It couldn't be time to wake up already.

"Spike?" she murmured, her tongue uncooperative and sluggish, her eyes unwilling to part.

She drew the conclusion he was lying next to her, which was odd. Then she could feel how close his face was. It was more intuition telling her his nose was practically touching her cheek than it was her actually feeling it, but then she perceived the coolness of his skin.

She was about to turn her head and force her eyes to open so that she could look at him, but didn't get the chance.

Before she could part her lips, his mouth had found hers and he kissed her in a way that made it impossible for her not to respond. For all of her to respond. For every inch of her to be wide awake and wide open within a moment, her arms, rogue and foreign, wrapping themselves around his neck, as if wanting to stop him from moving away.

But then, there was something else. Something new. A tingle.

She ended the kiss, pulling her head back to look at him.

His eyes were twinkling with amusement.

She felt rage and humiliation swirl through her chest and she pushed him off the bed hard enough for him to go flying into the niche hosting the window. He was chuckling. It wasn't her Spike.

The crash must have been loud enough to hear through the wall, because she heard the door of the other room open within a mere few seconds, the door of the room she inhabited soon swinging open as well, Spike stopping in its doorway. He looked at her – questioningly, wanting to know if she was alright – and then he saw the still slouching vampire, with his back smashed into the heavy curtains and the smirk unwilling to be killed off – if there was even an attempt, which the Slayer doubted; and the vampire in the doorway assessed the situation in the bat of an eyelash, and even quicker than that he had crossed the room, grabbed the other vampire by the throat and hoisted him onto his feet with a growl.

"Hey," the vampire practically giggled, grabbing hold of the other's hand and smiling widely. "She kissed me back."

Buffy watched the frown form on Spike's brow. She couldn't really see his face, but the soft crease of his outlined forehead told her all she needed to know, except what was going on behind it. What must he be thinking? The anger and disgust she had experienced dripped away in a moment, like drops of water on a window pane, gliding out of sight haltingly, joining with each other and leaving her weary and with a view that was no clearer than it had been before.

"Spike," she said.

"Which one?" the vampire still being held in a tight grip asked with another smirk. "Better make up your mind, pet."

He received an awesome punch on the chin from his captor, sending him stumbling headfirst into the wall next to the niche. Spike made a move as if there were more pounding in need of being done, but the vampiress appeared in the doorway with such a wondering expression on her face that he paused.

"Just doing you a favor, mate," the vampire, leaned against the fall-breaker, said.

"Get him out of here," Spike murmured.

The vampiress frowned at the other vampire – who didn't take his eyes out of Spike's – before she walked up to him, grabbed his arm and pulled him with her toward the door. She met Buffy's gaze for a brief moment, but looked away and the door clicked shut behind them.

"So," Spike said, turning to her.

She couldn't quite discern the look in his eyes.

"So," she said, hoping he'd leave it there.

"So, you kissed him?" he took it further.

She sunk back against the headboard.

"I was practically asleep."

"Practically as in fully unconscious? Because I seem to remember you telling me that would be the only chance I would _ever_ have with you."

"That was... I didn't... It wasn't..."

She trailed off, meeting his gaze and noticing the change of expression in it. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying it. And she was instantly annoyed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Nice," she grumbled.

"Was it?" he asked, a smile splitting his face and she looked away from him, rolling onto her side with a huff, placing herself with her back to him. "Oh, come on, Slayer," he said, "I'm bloody pissed off..."

"I was _asleep_!"

"With _him_!" he exclaimed, drawing an unnecessary breath. "But, not being without a sense of irony, I'm sure it hurt you more than it did me."

"I didn't do it to _hurt_ you," she snapped. "I didn't know it was _him_."

She bit the inside of her cheek until she could taste copper, pathetically unable to simply turn over and rest her eyes in his. It wasn't like she was proclaiming whatever she could have been proclaiming. She was barely saying anything with her actions. It was more like a whisper. Hopefully he would barely hear it. She completely ignored the fact that he had paranormal hearing and could pick up the scratch of a cricket from a mile away.

He was too quiet. He never knew when to shut up – him shutting up now would surely be prelude to the heavens opening up and the hand of God coming down with bolts of lightning and rainstorms, ending the world as she knew it. Soon, however, she decided that she was being ridiculous, and turned over, sitting up before raising her gaze to his. She hadn't expected the inquisitiveness, or the scrutiny residing behind it.

"Listen to that," he said, referring to the yelling match that the vampire couple was having on the other side of the wall.

"Trying not to," she replied, her voice faint and sounding nothing like her own.

"You've come to care for her, haven't you?" he asked, and somehow the gentleness that came into his eyes went straight into her.

"You didn't think I would?" she wondered.

"Wasn't convinced of it," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Well," he said hesitantly, then smiled slightly. "Empathy isn't your strong suit."

"And what's my strong suit?"

"Being strong," he replied, "when everyone else falls down."

"You don't fall down."

"I didn't say me, I said everyone else."

She was smiling before she knew it, looking away from him and at her hands, of all things, as if she was bashful for some reason. Which she wasn't.

"Sorry," he said, her eyebrows rising slightly. "You were supposed to sleep," he added.

She smiled again.

"Yeah, 'cause that's gonna happen," she said.

He hesitated again, but smiled as well, beginning to move toward the door.

"So you make it happen," he instructed. "Another one of your strong suits: you'd stop the bloody world from turning if you put your mind to it."

"Okay. ...Stay," she stopped him, his hand on the doorknob. "I think I'll sleep better knowing exactly where you are."

He suddenly smirked, eyes back in hers.

"Here's hoping 'exactly' means in between those sheets, all warm and snug."

"Shut up," she said, shaking her head and lying back down.

**x**

He slipped his duster off, watching the lump that was her body under the blanket covering her and thinking how that was all that separated them; and she had asked him to stay. Told him to stay was perhaps more accurate, but it was one command he couldn't mind adhering to. He placed himself on the other bed, looking at the blonde looks flowing over the pillow which served to support her head.

It was like one of her more precise kicks to the stomach to even consider that, had he had the balls to do what the other vampire had done, her momentary lapse of concentration could have been his to claim. But then, it wouldn't have been any different, he was certain of that. He would have ended up bleeding tangled with the curtains, just as the other one had.

She didn't know what she wanted.

But it was as if she had forgotten where they had stood before; as if this new, familiar ground somehow allowed her to see him: not the demon, not the past or a more-than-likely threat, but a man. She looked at him now in a way that reminded him of what it was like being a _man_.

The door of the next room slammed harshly. The vampiress had left it.

"We said 'let them work it out themselves', right?" the Slayer murmured.

He glanced at her, smiling slightly.

"Believe mum was the word," he agreed.

"Right," she said, rolling over on her back. "Sounded heavy."

"Thought you weren't listening."

"Said I was _trying_ not to. These walls have got to be paper thin."

Her eyes met his and there was a lightness to everything, as always, when she looked at him wearing a smile. Suddenly he couldn't bear it, and looked away. It was almost over with now; the mission would be wrapped up. Or the world would end. Either way, she was out of his reach. Ten inches away from him she was bloody out of his reach.

"Your eyes are open," he remarked.

"All the better to see you with, my dear," she quipped, and as he glanced at her it was as if he could actually see her mind check itself, wondering why it had chosen that phrase when any other would have been so much more appropriate.

She smiled, and there was something rueful in it that he wasn't sure she even recognized herself, before she lay back down.

"I always knew you wanted to kiss me," he finally said, and he could see a fleeting smile on her mouth, though she didn't look at him.

"Intervention," she then suddenly declared, rising to her feet.

"Intervention?" he asked, having been rather lost in thought. He watched her pull her boots on and clicked the word into its rightful place. "Oh. Intervention," he said, beginning to rise as well.


	30. Intervention

Much love to nichbuket and Brunettepet (for all three reviews!) for reviewing, you make my day, you know you do! Much appreciation and naked-Spike's-in-your-bed to you! (If you would rather have another character naked-in-your-bed, let me know - I'm sure I can work something out. Whoa, look at me going all pimp-daddy.) ;)

I would also like to thank whoever nominated Bite Marks for the new The Reader's Have Chosen page! It sounds like a really cool idea and I'm so happy and honored that you would want to nominate this story - thank you SO much! If anyone would like to go and vote and show their support, here's the link: .?topic=1325.0

With thanks and buckets of hugs,

Annie.

Hope you'll enjoy what's up ahead!

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter Thirty: Intervention**

Sire and Childe

The vampiress pulled her sire through the doorway of his room, pushing him further in before she closed the door behind them. He was still smiling, meeting her hard gaze with rising eyebrows.

"Oh, sod off, I was just having me a bit of fun," he said.

If that was his idea of an explanation she didn't know, that it was nowhere near an excuse she was certain, and that it was nothing of an apology she wasn't surprised. Seemed she had finally learned the lesson. Didn't mean it didn't sting like the bite of a Narglar demon. She clenched her jaws together, afraid that if she opened her mouth she would scream. One long, loud scream that would make his ugly, selfish, inconsiderate head explode.

She drew an unnecessary breath, making it a very long one, before she finally asked:

"Fun?"

"I know the concept is highly unfamiliar, pet, but it's when it feels good," he smirked, pointing to his stomach, "right here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was under the impression it was supposed to be a little lower," she said, approaching him, delivering an effective fist to the spot where he had pointed as she past him, and his mirth quickly abated. "Was it good for you?" she asked, pausing by his shoulder, her chin almost resting on it before she stepped around him, his gaze not leaving hers as he moved with her in order to face her, rubbing the hurt with a slight frown.

"You're angry."

"And you're an idiot. Are we done stating the obvious or do you want another round?"

He was about to reply, but she stopped him by saying:

"Tell me why."

He narrowed his eyes, observing her keenly.

"Are we doing twenty questions now?"

"Tell me why you _turned_ me, idiot! Tell me why, when you want _her_!"

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind, but the doubt and the pain inside of her were too great. They rose like strangely shaped patterns that connected everything he had said and done to mean something she had never thought of before, and it was a searing, wounding experience. It wouldn't let her see anything else.

"I've seen you look at her."

"If you could buggering hear yourself," he murmured.

"What's the point of _any_ of it, if you want her after everything? I'm not her anymore. _You_ killed her!"

"You actually bloody believe that that in there was anything but a...? She doesn't know how much she wants him, bloody hell! And he's too much of a pussycat now to not be content just rolled up in her sodding lap, waiting for whatever she'll deliver: stroke or blow, he'll sodding well take it!"

"And sucking on her face would fix all this?"

"I thought you were as fed up with it as me," he exclaimed.

"That's _so_ beyond the point you can't even _see_ the point anymore! God, Spike, the point is _behind_ the horizon where you're standing right now!" she yelled at him. "You know, you've been really good at telling me what my problem is, that I'm too narrow minded and that I need to open my eyes to my new reality – yeah, that's right, I heard you. Now I'm gonna tell you what _your_ problem is," she stated, bringing forth a calm that was so forced it made her tremble. "You're so good at reading people, but you _suck_ at understanding them. You love pushing those buttons, but you never once consider what will come of you pushing them."

"Don't sodding lecture me," he grumbled.

"What am I supposed to do, then? You're like a child! Spoilt for choice, always able to wreak havoc and not stick around to watch the outcome. The devastation. What you did in there _hurt_ me; did it even cross your mind that it might?"

"What the hell do I know? For all I can see you're not exactly innocent."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, fine, play at being ignorant. You slept in his sodding arms and I've said nothing about it. Bloody _nothing_."

"And you think I want you to not say anything about how I had to find comfort out of your arms because you let me leave London without you to face my death alone?"

He was about to answer, but refrained.

She shook her head slowly.

"Every time you even come close to redeeming yourself, you do something that makes me wonder why the hell I let you put me through this."

"Yeah, maybe you should've listened to me, love," he grumbled. "Told you you'd be better off without me."

"Of course," she said; bitterness on her tongue as she walked past him and headed for the door. "It's always my own fault, isn't it?"

She opened the door, stepped through it, and shut it harshly behind her, biting back the tears as she proceeded to the stairs.

**x**

He couldn't bloody believe her with the guilt tripping and the bloody accusing eyes and tremblings of the lower lip area. He stood still for a full five minutes, boiling and wanting to kick something to pieces, knowing the only thing that would stop it would be immobility. Finally he huffed, turning from the door and pulling the curtains before the window apart, looking out over the short lawn stretching its partially snow covered, moss-infested grass towards the trees at the back of the hotel.

"Sulking?" his own voice rang out behind him and his hands became aggravated fists.

"No," he muttered sourly.

"You're so sodding predictable."

His jaw tightened, but he faced the other with an inquisitive look in his eyes, figuring his leashed counterpart must have been listening to the argument, and wondering if the Slayer had heard it as well. Of course she had; and now they were going to "set things right". As bloody terrified as they were of approaching each other in any real sense they sure did think themselves the harmonious little team.

"And you're not, I suppose?" he asked out loud.

"Turning the conversation away from you," the other said, adding matter-of-factly: "Predictable."

Spike smirked ever so slightly.

"You hear what went on in here, then?"

"Most of it, yeah."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Siding with her, are you?"

"I can understand your argument."

"According to her..."

He trailed off, dazed, as if his thoughts were slowing without him telling them to. According to her, he had acted on an impulse to have something he had been craving. According to her, he had betrayed her.

"So, _you_ heard, too," the other said, small smile on his mouth. "Always a start."

"For what?" Spike muttered, sitting down in the armchair and leaning forward, looking at one of the laces of his DocMartin's, which had inexplicably come undone.

It seemed highly irregular. He couldn't remember the last time he tied them, and now that black, clothed worm dangling helplessly in the air caused a hundred little questions to pop into his head. When did it start to loosen? When did it wriggle its way out of the tightness of the knots he had twisted it into? What had prompted its sudden change of character? Why wouldn't it stay knotted when it had been knotted for such a long time?

He couldn't remember the last time he tied them.

Idly he reached down and stroked the dusty toe of the boot.

"I respect her," the other said and he slowly raised his eyes to his again. "The Slayer. I respect her."

"And what?" Spike replied with rising eyebrows. "For what? I respected her. She was a decent fighter. She was an interesting bloody opponent."

"You never respected her," the other said testily.

"I never respected her bloody self-righteous little battle against evil. It seemed too naïve. Too... stupid. Evil has been a part of this world since the dawn of time and evil will be a part of it come the end of days, so where the hell is the use in fighting it? You kill one, another one takes his place. It ain't like she's been thinning the herds, exactly. You know what I mean, don't act like you don't."

"I remember," the other confirmed. "That arrogance. When you've – ... If you'd gotten to fight her as many times as I have, you'd have looked into her face and seen something that doesn't even come close to naïve. Even less to stupid."

"Are you trying to make a point, or do you just feel like talking about the virtues of the Slayer?"

"I'm not a pussycat," the other stated, Spike meeting his gaze before a smile split his face.

"Could've fooled me," Spike remarked, continuing at the incensed expression of the other with: "You talk about the Slayer like she's something sacred, like I couldn't possibly understand you. You think you know how _I_ feel? You've no bloody clue what I've been through with that girl. You tell me you don't bloody envy me. Look at me and tell me you've never thought about it. Claiming her for your own. Having her with you, always. Be a part of her. Have her want to be a part of you."

"But she's not with you, is she?" the other remarked. "Would you want her to be? Maybe you prefer it like this – watching from the sidelines. Have to say, it's oddly patient of you."

"You answer mine, I'll answer yours."

There was a slight pause as they surveyed each other.

"Yeah, I've thought about tasting her," the other finally admitted. "But I..." He paused for a moment before finishing his sentence decidedly, "I couldn't hurt her like that."

Spike felt disbelief like something sticky on the roof of his mouth and disliked it intensely. The other's earnest affection for the cretin he had come to loathe and abhor and who he was happy he had rid himself of, at least that nasty, know-it-all, kick-you-down-just-for-looking side to her, was unsettling – like witnessing the billowing-into-a-mushroom-shape smoke of a nuclear bomb.

"What if she asked you to?" he then smirked, leaning back in the armchair. "What if she liked it real rough?"

He could see a spark of interest in the other's gaze, but it glowed brightly for only a moment before it burned down.

"I answered yours, you answer mine," he simply said.

Spike thought the pressure was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable how it weighed down on him. Making him feel set in a trap, a cage of steel and wires, closing in on him from every side and soon he wouldn't be able to move or think or...

"I bloody well don't know if I should even be here," he finally stated. "I think I have to be. Couldn't kill her myself, least I can do is see it through, right? Just be there. Sidelines or front and bloody center, yeah?"

The other was observing him closely now, as though he was a particularly interesting painting hanging on the wall in the house of a new acquaintance, as though the other was seeing a new side to himself through the brushstrokes. Spike gave a low growl and rose to his feet.

"I need alcohol," he grumbled.

**x**

"Hey," the Slayer's voice reached the vampiress, who quickly dried her cheeks, kicking up a few of the dead pine needles at her feet as some form of distraction from her frailty.

"Hey," she replied when she was convinced her voice was steady.

"I didn't..." the Slayer began, but the vampiress shook her head, glancing at her.

"God, no," she more or less interrupted her, and the Slayer smiled the hint of a smile, looking both questioning and tentatively encouraging, before reproach and sympathy took over.

"You okay?" she prodded, but caught herself and her smile widened. "Such a dumb thing to ask. Sorry."

The vampiress shook her head again, returning the smile bravely before shaking her hair out of her face.

"You okay?" she then inquired.

The Slayer's smile stiffened just a fraction, but she hid it well with a shrug.

"Rough and tumble all part of the biz, right?" she said and the vampiress laughed.

It felt good, rising through her chest, filling her mouth: she hadn't laughed in a while, she realized.

"He's a good kisser," she then sighed and at the look on the Slayer's face she smiled again. "He is too a great kisser and you can't deny it," she teased.

"Oh, are we comparing notes now?" the Slayer wondered, clearly aggravated. "I thought you were angry," she added.

"I'm mad; really, really mad," the vampiress assured. "But at him, not you. And, I mean, what he did, why he did what he did-..."

"Yeah, of course he'll give you his own warped reasons, and I think the entire establishment got to hear them, but this hadn't ever happened if I wasn't such a mess," the Slayer cut her off. "Really; about everything," she added in an explanatory fashion. "Because I died. And then I came back."

She seemed to stop mid-argument, but wore an expression of being finished and the vampiress decided to humor her clear need to leave the subject well enough alone as something else had caught her attention.

"Where did you go?" she asked, hoping she wasn't prying. The Slayer frowned. "When you died," the former clarified tentatively.

"Somewhere peaceful," the Slayer answered; her voice turning gentle in a heartbeat.

"Sounds nice," the vampiress murmured. "Not like the damning fires of hell and all that."

She could feel the other's eyes on her like one fixed nail digging into the skin a little below her eyebrow.

"Why did you choose it?" the Slayer asked.

The vampiress met her gaze, wanting more than ever for the other's understanding.

"I felt," the vampiress said slowly, thoughtfully, not wanting the words to come out wrong, wanting the explanation to be precise. "I felt that I wasn't supposed to die. Not like that. I felt it when I knew he was going to bite me; when I saw in his eyes that he'd offer me something in return. I don't think he even knew that he would, but I could see it. And when he tasted me, I wanted it, more than anything I'd ever wanted before. To mix. With him. And it wasn't..." She paused. "It wasn't the kind of thrall they try to throw at us," she said, meeting the Slayer's gaze to see if she knew what she meant, and the other clearly did, because she looked more and more shaken. "I made a choice. I chose him," she finished.

"But mom," the Slayer tried to offer as a counterweight to the decision. "Your life. What about your life?"

"I was dying," the vampiress replied. "There was nobody there but me and him."

"Sounds like a thrall to me," the Slayer murmured.

The vampiress looked at her in silence before she asked:

"You're wondering about Angel, aren't you?"

"I wasn't..."

"Yeah, you were," the vampiress cut her off. "And I bet you the only reason you're curious is 'cause you keep asking yourself that question: what about Angel?"

The Slayer's brow furrowed slowly.

"This isn't about me," she then said.

The vampiress merely smiled a crooked smile.


	31. Relent

**Chapter Thirty-One: Relent**

_S__layer and __V__amp_

Buffy halted on the last step of the stairs taking her into the hotel's refurbished basement, where a common room had been arranged with worn furniture and splashes of white paint. When the vampiress had continued back upstairs the Slayer had steered from the option of rejoining Spike and listen to another bout of what was bound to be an intriguing argument – she'd had quite enough of them for one night. However, now, she was rapidly beginning to regret her decision as her eyes had landed on the neck of the sire vampire seated in one of the weathered armchairs in front of the television. The room was pitch black except for the flickering blue and white light coming off the screen. She wondered at the weariness she was experiencing while looking at the abominable creature. She felt nothing but that, and deep, sustained mistrust.

She hesitated in her position long enough to make him turn his head to her. She saw his cheek curve in one of those smirks before he raised a glass to her; she hadn't noticed it sitting on the armrest. It was filled with amber liquid, and suddenly she longed for one deep mouthful. The feeling was strong enough to pull her off the step and up to one of the free armchairs. There were four. She placed one between herself and the vampire and another smirk spread on his lips, his eyes this time fastened on the screen.

"Not scared of me, are you, love?"

"Try wary," she retorted. "And don't call me love."

She directed her gaze on the screen.

"What is this?"

"Passions," he replied. "Reruns. Tedious, but with the perk of already knowing what's gonna happen. Makes you not have to wait forbloodyever for the outcome."

She shifted in her seat, sending him an impatient look.

"Oh, ha-ha," she said. He cocked an eyebrow, meeting her gaze. "You mean _you_ watch this? As in frequently? As in knowing their names and quirks and forever-and-ever scheming?"

"And here you thought I'd be watching Highlander in my long leather coat, hissing in recognition every time he turned his head in slow mo," he said, but she was much too shocked to offer any quick-witted reply to that.

"I need alcohol," she murmured and he reached his glass over to her.

She was one third of a second away from taking it, her hand even lifting off her lap, when she reconsidered and instead sent a glare his way.

"Thank you, but I think our swapping of fluids is done," she stated, rising to her feet. "Where'd you find it?" she added, beginning to search the room for any hidden cabinet or conspicuously placed bar.

"Under the floor," he answered her question. "And not to be blunt about it, but you bloody well kissed me back."

"Oh, yes, that makes it justified," she said, staring at the floorboards beneath her feet. "Under the floor?"

He rose, putting the glass back down on the armrest and coming up to her.

"You kissed me back; you wanted it; stop acting like you didn't and we might just get along," he replied, grabbing one of the boards and lifting it up; it brought two more with it, forming a hatch which revealed a ladder leading into a dark hole smelling of mould and ancient dirt.

She stared down into it; then directed a reproachful gaze at him. He smiled angelically.

"I don't want to get along," she said. "There's no getting along with bleached evil."

"Mh," he said, his smile merely broadening. "Much more fun fighting it, isn't there?"

She narrowed her eyes in aggravation, but his smirk simply broadened.

"Suddenly, I'm not so thirsty," she stated, turning on her heel and marching back up to the stairs.

His chuckle followed her all the way out onto the porch.

**x**

Spike heard the door open and looked in its general direction, concluding that it was not the Slayer returning, but the vampiress. As he met her gaze he realized he might actually be in the wrong place. Having decided against pursuing the other vampire – when he had stalked off in search of something to saturate him – he had opted for returning to the bedroom of the Slayer; which was also the official bedroom of the vampiress. Now he mentally punched himself for being so doped up by the Slayer's invitation that he hadn't even considered the highly likely situation in which he _wouldn't_ end up spending the night in there. He smiled, mostly at himself, sitting up.

"Sorry," he said, but the vampiress shook her head, leaning against the wall opposite him with a tired sigh.

"_I'm_ sorry," she disagreed. "You're just a little needy."

"Oh, _I'm_ the needy one," he smirked, making her smile tentatively before she looked down at her feet, her hair falling forward, framing her face out of sight. "Buffy," he spoke softly, but she wouldn't meet his gaze.

"She's in love with you, you know," she finally said, raising her head with oddly clear eyes, almost as if the tears which hadn't quite been shed had managed to polish them, brighten them.

His smile was instant, simply because his first reaction was to recognize the joke in that statement. His second was to see the preposterousness in her sentiment.

"Living vicariously through us, are we?" he retorted.

She furrowed her brow, coming up to have a seat next to him. She sighed, running her hands through her hair as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees and her shoulders slumped.

"He doesn't listen to me," she said.

"He doesn't listen to himself," he remarked with a cocked eyebrow. "He listens," he added. "He just doesn't hear you. Yet."

"He's stubborn."

"And you're Following-the-Leader Girl," he retorted dryly. "You push and pull 'til he pushes or pulls back. 'S how it works, innit?"

"Is that how it works with you?" she asked, gaze suddenly in his, her eyes big and green and inquisitive.

He tilted his head a little to one side.

"Buffy usually pushes," he shrugged and she smirked, bringing her legs up and wrapping her arms around them as she watched him closely.

"Isn't it hard doing all the pulling? Doesn't it wear you out?"

"Plenty of wear left in these bones," he smiled, suddenly dying for a fag.

Knowing he didn't have a pack on him, he discarded it.

"You really love her, don't you?" she asked slowly.

"Yeah, well."

Her hand found his, her fingers surprising him with their cool; any contact with the Slayer had always been like bolts of electricity shooting fire through whatever nerve endings she happened to connect with. He rested his eyes in the vampiress', wondering at this being, so unlike the woman who was scarring him into something unrecognizable, and yet so similar.

"I don't feel this way for her because of _what _she is," he said gently, linking his fingers with the vampiress'.

She stared at him for a long moment, then a smile spread on her lips, reaching her eyes and warming her features up considerably.

The door opened and he turned his head to the doorway just as Buffy stopped cold, taking them both in for a second with widening eyes before she smiled stiffly. The vampiress took her hand away, getting to her feet.

"I looked for Spike in the-..." the vampiress began.

"Yeah, he's downstairs," the Slayer clipped her off. "Drinking himself into a stupor. Quite the guy you've got there."

The vampiress glanced at Spike, granting him a quick smile before she headed up to the door, closing it behind her.

**x**

Buffy unzipped her jacket with one swift movement, tossing it onto the armchair before she moved around to the side of the other bed, sinking down on it, one hand beginning to rub her forehead in slow movements. She was irritated, and blamed all of it on the situation she had just escaped.

"You said intervene," he pointed out.

The rubbing slowed somewhat; then she brought her hand down, her eyes opening and fastening in his. She couldn't understand why she should feel indignant, but when she looked at him, the emotion became overpowering, slapping all other emotions out of its way as it gained foothold within her; as if her bosom was a battlefield, with all the uncertainty and mayhem that came with it.

"I know," she delivered her snappy response to his previous remark. "But I thought you went to do it with the other you," she added.

"What a dirty, disgusting mind you have," he smirked. "You said intervene," he repeated.

"If I said roll over and die, would you do that, too?" she asked sweetly, lying down on her back, head on the pillow as both her hands were set to work on her temples.

"Now, why would you say something like that?" he retorted.

She listened to the leather of his duster moan as he shifted his weight to lie on his side. She wondered where he had gotten it, that treasured piece of clothing which seemed to be the beginning and end of his character. She wondered what would happen if he ever took it off. Her hands stilled, leaving their task and settling on her stomach. She wanted him to take it off.

She moved onto her side as well, resting her gaze in his.

Then she smiled.

It was sudden, and uncalled for, and she sat up because of it.

"I don't know why I would," she murmured, one hand going back to her aching head.

"You okay?" he asked.

She knew there was more to that question than her obvious discomfort and whatever malady was causing it, but she didn't want to broach the subject and so she merely nodded as a reply, scooting to the edge of the bed.

He sat up as well, and with that slow, unintentionally suggestive movement, her heart skipped several beats, beginning to race like someone had pushed a shot of amphetamine straight into its pulsing muscle. She stared at him for one brief moment, watched a ring-adorned hand slip up to his neck and scratch it languidly, and then rose to her feet.

"I'm going on patrol," she stated.

He furrowed his brow.

"Do you _want _to put the place out of business?" he asked.

"Not a marching, I-am-the-Slayer-be-ware patrol," she answered, grabbing her jacket and putting it on. "More like a la-la-la-what-pretty-trees-just-looking-at-the-trees kind of patrol. If I happen to see something behind one of them and kill it, then that's just helpful; don't want fishy creatures creeping around."

"Hey, fishy creatures have every right to creep," he remarked.

She zipped up her jacket with a cock of one eyebrow, grabbing her stake as she headed for the door. He got to his feet as well and she stopped dead.

"You're not coming," she said.

"I'm not?"

"No."

"Sorry," he said, "going to have to elaborate on that."

Her heart had grown actual legs and was galloping along her ribs.

"Because I don't want you to," she replied simply, grabbing the doorknob.

She walked across the graveled drive and continued in amongst the trees, into the silence to try and quiet down her racing thoughts. She had to get a grip, she had to be in control, she couldn't let herself begin to fall apart whenever she saw him, because why would she be falling apart?

She didn't even attempt to answer her own question, but let the question mark clip off that train of thought as she steered her thoughts away from the vampire.

She had slowed her march and now she reached out a hand to touch the rough bark of one of the trees: it felt ancient - a testimony to its weathering everything which had been thrown in its path, standing its ground, assured in its roots digging into the soil proclaiming its right to be there. Her hand seemed tiny in comparison. She wondered if all those things this forest had seen lay embedded in the branches, and with every new spring the memories were the green in its foliage, declaring man's blindness with the stark colors of autumn, and resigning themselves to rest for yet another season when sailing through the air and littering the ground by the dozen at the approach of winter; like a natures diary, only to be read by a select few with the precious ability not to judge things by their cover.

Suddenly her eyes were in Spike's where he stood leaned against the other side of the trunk and she jumped, giving him a push in the chest.

"I said I didn't want you to come," she exclaimed.

"Yeah, found it surprisingly easy not to listen to you, for some reason," he replied with a crooked smile.

"Oh, cuteness _so_ doesn't work for you," she practically growled, turning from him and stalking forward through the trees without much aim behind it.

"Why are you mad?"

"Are you expecting me to actually answer that?" she spat, refusing to look at him where he strode easily beside her.

"Well, are you mad at me or is this just lingering resentment for what the other me did, 'cause I have to tell you, I'd find it unfair if I were to-…"

"Will you stop _analyzing_ it?" she practically yelled, stopping to face him. "I don't want you here – what is so hard to understand? I know women are all double messages and maybe we're supposed to be that way, maybe there's supposed to be a dance, but there isn't one here! This is me and you and the me is telling the you to back the hell off – get it? That's all there is to it. Not some mysterious hidden reason for me behaving like I don't want you here; just me, not wanting you here. So go away!"

**x**

He watched her go, thinking he could actually hear the bricks stack themselves between them, forming a wall that grew higher and higher with every step she took. He felt a nip in the pit of his stomach, like a hook had embedded itself there, a line stretching to her petite form and no matter what he did, he was caught, and couldn't break away or it'd rip open his abdomen.

If only she could stop pushing for just one bleeding moment.

"This holier-than-thou-smite-you-down-lest-you-do-as-I-say part of your persona is getting unattractive, Slayer," he said.

It made her face him again, her mouth open as if to say something, but she seemed to be lost for words and he closed the distance between them. Bricks flying everywhere.

"You act like you think I'll bleeding bow down before you and do exactly as you say – "

"Damn right, I think," she interrupted him. "You, on the other hand, are thinking what, in this moment? That you being anywhere near me isn't because of me granting you grace, but because you've earned it? Because you've chosen it? What? What are you thinking, I really want to know, because _I've_ been going over it ever since Buffy asked you about it, and I don't know why. Why are you still in Sunnydale? Why didn't you leave after I... _stopped_ being there?!"

He furrowed his brow slowly, observing the upset emotions tracing her every movement, the way she looked at him, her voice.

"I made a promise," he mumbled, slightly bewildered. "I promised you..."

He trailed off, feeling the confusion settle on his face, but it didn't smooth away her agitation and she shook her head a little.

"You didn't stay because of that!" she suddenly exclaimed. "I'm not stupid. Willow... Willow told you what she was going to do. _You_ helped her."

His eyes narrowed again and he took a step forward, but she shied away from him, putting her hands up defensively in front of her to steer him off, as if he was about to pounce on her.

"I didn't know," he said. "You know that I didn't."

His voice was as gentle as he could make it under the strain of his growing aggravation with her. He was beginning to think that the fact of them having to return to their dimension, and all that was left there to deal with, was working its way into her, and that it was bringing her into a state of hysteria. She was trembling. Her fingers wouldn't stop shaking no matter how many times she clenched them into fists. When her expression showed nothing in the way of her having accepted what he had just reminded her of, the gentleness flew out of him like a dove fleeing its cage.

Her granting him grace?

"Maybe I haven't proven anything to you," he murmured, meeting her gaze again. "But I have earned the right for some bleeding respect from you."

"Really?" she asked, as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

A fuse was lit in that moment, and all that was explosive within him began to count down threateningly. He took another few steps forward, and this time she stood her ground, resting her eyes in his with a challenge saying she was just as volatile as he was, and she was daring him to come even one inch closer to her and he would find out for himself. Only, he already knew.

"What would there possibly be to respect?" she inquired further.

His hands clenched.

"You don't want to see that I've got your sodding back, do you?"

"You've got my nothing!" she retorted. "Everything you do you do 'cause you think it'll lead into my _bed_. You want what you can't have, and that's it, that's the whole sum-up of your character. You're like the other you, only worse, 'cause at least he realized his mistake. You – you're _pathetic_! You've fooled yourself into thinking you actually enjoy it, all of it, that the home you said you've made for yourself actually exists in Sunnydale. Truth is: you're scared. You're scared of leaving, 'cause how would you survive, the way you are? Who would ever want to have anything to do with you?"

He grabbed one of her wrists in a crushing grip, pulling her a little closer as he hissed:

"You have no bloody clue what I'm good for."

"But I have a pretty good idea, don't I?" she shot.

"No," he murmured, her face so very close. "You know why I stay in Sunnydale."

The scorn that had been resting in her eyes slowly went away when he held her gaze with his; vulnerability and disbelief took its place before he saw a flash of such raw denial chase them away that it almost scathed him.

She yanked her wrist loose, taking a few steps back.

"Don't tell me you love me," she said; disgusted; angered. "You don't have a soul. You can't _feel_ _anything_."

The words shattered inside him into a thousand shards that eagerly proceeded with proving her wrong as they did their damage. He was about to say something in return, something as harsh as the blows she had just dealt him, but she walked past him, continuing down the path back toward the hotel.

"Buffy," he said.

"Shut up," she replied.

He followed her, trying to make her stop, trying to straighten out the colliding emotions and thoughts inside of him, searching for the right things to say so that she would look at him and realize how bloody wrong she was about so many things. She pushed his attempts back, her frame rigid as they crossed the lawn taking them to the entrance of the hotel.

She swatted at his hands as she hurried up the stairs, seemingly forcing her composure until she could reach her room; and what – lock herself in there? Why wouldn't she bloody look at him?

He finally managed to get a hold of her right wrist, just as she had reached their landing. He grabbed her and pulled her to a halt, but she yanked to get free, making him stumble on the last step, straight into her, pushing her harshly against the wall and leaning against her before he had a chance to regain his balance. Her breath was warm through his T as she raised her gaze into his.

It was a most extraordinary sensation he underwent in that moment; as if she was a magnet, and every particle that made him up was invariably locked with hers; it made him feel that he couldn't have broken away, even if he had tried to.

She looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite wrap his mind around before she grew slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

She was about to answer, but before he quite knew how it happened his hands were on either side of her face, taking in the softness of her, brushed by her blonde locks, and as his touch produced a soft gasp from her he had the strongest notion that this was what she wanted, what she needed, why she had fled from him and he didn't hesitate before he let his lips met hers, her hands on his upper arms, holding onto him as though she was afraid she would fall, his tongue parting her lips and the kiss deepening, her arms going around his neck as she returned the kiss.

Exhilarating.

She was groaning softly, her fingers in his hair, pushing him closer as she jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was dazedly aware of his feet moving them haphazardly down the hall, reaching the door with familiar numbers on it. He leaned them against it, giving up even attempting to find his way inside: she tasted like sun-warm blackberries.

But it wasn't enough. He wanted to burn, to melt into her, kiss his way through her skin, possess her in the way she possessed him.

Her entire body heating up; his mouth left hers to trace the curve of her neck, taking in the smooth softness of her skin, his tongue tracing the warmth of it.

She drew a breath, her hand fumbling with something behind her back and when the door to her bedroom swung open he concluded blurredly that it must have been the knob. Then her lips claimed his again, her breathing labored, slow. He didn't reach farther than the low desk, mostly because he was about to lose his senses completely. He grabbed her hips, pushing her groin against his as her lips slipped down the side of his throat. Something bright was in front of his eyes and he could barely see, only feel the sensation of her tongue and mouth and how her hands were pushing his duster off his shoulders slowly, making it fall to the floor with a soft thud, her fingers gliding over his exposed skin and her body heat extending, seeping into him.

His mouth found hers hungrily, the kiss producing another soft groan and his hands slid under her shirt, caressing her.

But then something changed. Everything slowed down. The kiss suddenly became languid and instead of stroking skin, their hands moved around the other in a tightening hold. Gently she ended the kiss, pulling back and fastening her eyes in his; and the warmth in them went into him in a completely different way to anything else she had just done to him. He stared at her, a small smile on his lips and he wasn't sure how long it had been there. She observed him and slowly she mirrored it. He was about to kiss her again when a soft knock interrupted him and they both turned their heads to the door, still standing ajar.

In it stood a rather short, stocky man wearing a wrinkled gray suit and thick glasses. On his head was a red hunting cap.

"Apologies," he excused himself, his eyes rather wide at the sight of them. "My name is Dexter Maury. I was told you wished to see me."


	32. Dexter

**Chapter Thirty-Two: Dexter**

Slayer and Vamp

"Huh?" Buffy asked; her senses so full of the vampire with his arms still around her that she could barely focus her gaze on the form in the doorway. "What?" she added, feeling Spike's hold begin to loosen and having the most overwhelming urge to yell at the intruder to get out; but Spike's arms released her before she got the chance.

She was vaguely aware of the proper action being for her to let go of him, but her hands refused to comply and stayed locked behind his neck, her legs still around him, keeping him close to her. She moved her head, and when she met his gaze the fog in her head dissipated, though her reluctance stayed with her for a bit longer and she detangled herself from him without much hurry.

He eyed her with the hint of a smile on his mouth and she would have given anything in that moment for him to kiss her again, even if it was just briefly.

"I'm Dexter Maury," the man repeated, looking at them quizzically.

The situation caught up with her and she cleared her throat, beginning to correct her clothing, buttoning her shirt and slipping off the desk to stand next to the vampire, who was picking up his duster off the floor. She glanced at the garment, remembering how it had felt under her fingers, and how cool his skin had been that followed its removal. She shook her head to clear it, walking up to Dexter.

"In a nutshell: we need your help to get the Mark of Nebulon back," she informed bluntly.

Dexter stared at her.

"Hey, how'd you know about that?"

She grabbed him and pushed him up against the door a bit more roughly than was necessary, but she couldn't quite control herself.

"The world is about to end," she said, the door of the next-door room opening and the two vampires coming through it with wondering expressions. "You want to go on existing – you'll help us get the Mark back."

**x**

"That _is_ true, my good man," Willow smiled at Oz as they stepped through the door of Giles' apartment, "but I never said I didn't like it."

"Willow!" Giles yelled, practically jumping into sight through the kitchen doorway.

"Yes!" Willow exclaimed – hugging the two books she was carrying to her chest. "What's the matter?"

Giles looked as unkempt as he had a few hours earlier, when she had left him for the library on his request. Only now, his eyes were shining with something not far from triumph.

"I asked for help," he said.

"I got them as quickly as I could," Willow defended. "It's not like the high school is around the corner."

"No, I asked for help, like you said we should," he clarified. "I finally got a hold of an old colleague who faxed me this."

He held up a piece of paper.

"Faxes will do that," Oz offered, glancing at Willow, who smiled a little before she walked up to the Watcher, putting the books down on the table and turning to him.

"Can I see?" she asked and he immediately handed her the paper. She looked it over, her eyes going back to the Watcher, widening with the realization of where his energy was coming from. "It's the pattern on the original dagger," she said, not entirely sure why she felt the need to say it out loud.

"Perhaps it'll add something new," Giles said.

"A loophole," Willow smiled, placing the paper on the table and feeling her heart beating wildly in her chest at the challenge before them of deciphering the message before it was too late.

And too late could already have come and gone.

**x**

"I never wanted anything like this to happen – why would I? I deal in antiques, alright. I have offices in Rome, London, Milwaukee. I'm something of an expert in these older demonic artefacts and I wouldn't have gone through with this if I hadn't been sure it'd be safe!" Dexter said, having sat down in the armchair, facing the other four who were seated and standing. "I had no idea that the dagger was needed for something as big as what you're describing. I stole it because I got word it was wanted by a collector who was sure to pay a big sum for it. Of course, he would only deal with Sir Intagar because, well, any serious collector ever only deals with Sir Intagar. I did make me a neat sum of money, though," he smiled, it fading at the stony faces before him. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down at his hands. "I had to have the money because I have to disappear."

"And why is that?" the sire vampire inquired.

"Because of who I love," Dexter replied, a bitter note in his voice. "And who loves me."

He dug through the inside pocket of his jacket before bringing out a small painted portrait, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, of a beautiful, dark-haired young woman.

"Her name's Ana," he murmured, looking at the picture. "And she's a vampire. She's disappearing with me. We're getting away from her clan if it's the last thing that I do."

"Not taking too kindly to her fondling a human?" the sire vampire asked with a crooked smile.

Dexter's face darkened.

"No," he confirmed.

"But our source told us you were mumbling about a reckoning," the Slayer remarked sharply. "Things having to be rectified. You were speaking of Ana?"

"Of course I was talking about Ana. I don't want anyone to get hurt! Good blood always goes to my head," Dexter murmured distractedly, the Slayer's face turning into an expression of distaste. "Hey, don't knock it, alright? It'll help me live longer."

"So that really is an Everander?" Spike inquired with a nod to the ring. "Thought the last one was lost in the dragon wars."

Before Dexter could reply, the window behind him shattered, Spike ducking out of the way of a heavy blade which embedded itself in the space of the wall he had just occupied.

"Bloody hell!" he swore, the Slayer grabbing Dexter and making him keep his head down as they made for the door.

Spike pulled the still swaying sword out of its position, weighing it in his hand before following the others.

"Spike!" the Slayer called a second before he appeared in the doorway they were just leaving behind.

She noted the weapon in his hand before she led them all down the hallway to the stairs, her hands still gripping Dexter's arms lightly. They paused on the landing, listening to the soft sound of footsteps which they could all – apart from Dexter – discern from the porch. The Slayer exchanged a look with the vampiress and knew they were thinking the same thing: they were surrounded.

"What do they want? Who are they?" Dexter asked nervously, looking from one to the other.

"People with swords," Spike replied, his gaze in the Slayer's.

The silence resting between them all spoke for them, asking what action should be taken next.

"We need to establish how many of them there are," the vampiress finally said. "We might have a chance."

"Doubt it," the sire vampire murmured, adding at everyone's raised eyebrows and Dexter's suddenly fearful expression: "But it's worth a try. Trying never killed... anyone."

The Slayer smirked slightly at that, looking at Spike and he gave a nod, stepping up to stand behind her as she signed to the others to stay. The two of them slipped down the stairs, stopping just shy of the ground floor landing, Buffy one step up and Spike's chin practically touching the top of her head as they leaned forward at the same time, gazing into the lobby. It appeared to be empty.

"Give me the sword," Buffy whispered, turning her head to look up at him.

"Did you duck to avoid it slamming into your chest?" he whispered back.

She tried to produce a stern look in her eyes, but it didn't quite get there and he merely smirked.

"No," she hissed.

"Then it wasn't meant for you, was it?" he said, stepping down past her and entering the lobby keeping his head low.

She followed him with a low huff, stopping at his side by the entrance door. They slowly brought their heads up, peeking out through the window set in the heavy wood. They immediately ducked down again, this time their shared look was lined thick with disbelief and mounting panic.

"There are lots of them," the Slayer said lightly as they rejoined the others on top of the stairs.

"By lots she means a swarming hoard of men carrying heavy weaponry," Spike clarified helpfully.

"So that's it, then?" Dexter asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Yes, that's it, we're giving up," the sire vampire replied with a slightly disgusted tone before turning to the other three: "I'll go out, create a diversion, keep them busy..."

"Won't work," the Slayer shook her head, noticing the vampiress' eyes having widened just a little.

"Why?" the sire vampire asked.

"There's too many of them – way too many of them for all of them to get distracted; and something tells me they'd kill you before you even got the chance to open your mouth. We can't fight them. There's no way."

"So we flee?" Dexter asked.

"Yes, that could work, apart from the fact that we're _surrounded_," the sire vampire remarked dryly.

"Are we really?" Dexter asked, his face beginning to drain of color.

"Lay off him," the Slayer warned. "Stay with me," she added, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him lightly as he began to sway precariously on his feet. "Look what you did," she grumbled with a glare at the vampire responsible.

He arched his eyebrows dismissively.

"He's dead weight. We cut him loose we might actually get out of this."

"He's the reason we're here, you moron!" the Slayer exclaimed.

"Oh," the vampire frowned. "Right."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stared at the Slayer as if there were light bulbs going off inside his head.

"What?" she asked.

"Downstairs," he instructed, leading the way.

Buffy and Spike each raised their eyebrows in slight questioning, but there was no point. Buffy gave Dexter a soft slap on either cheek and he roused himself so that he could meet her gaze. He seemed to grow steadier after that and she kept him between her and Spike as they followed the other two back down the stairs.

"It's too quiet," she muttered as they tentatively reached the landing.

They were about to continue down the stairs taking them into the basement when the front door was thrown open. Buffy could see the blade entering before its master, who – when coming into view – proved to be taller than she had realized: he had to bend his neck so that he didn't hit his head on the doorframe. She saw Spike hesitate, how the grip he held on the weapon tightened, but she thought she had an idea of what the sire vampire had in mind, and when she a second later saw two other men enter behind the first one she didn't hesitate.

"Go!" she yelled to Dexter, practically pushing him down the steps ahead of her.

She spun around and grabbed Spike's arm, just as his right hand began to raise the sword to meet that of the approaching foes. She didn't have to say anything, knowing that she looked as entreating as she ever had when meeting his gaze, and he followed her without question down the stairs, both of them closing the door behind them in the attackers faces and Spike blocking it as Buffy grabbed the heaviest piece of furniture she could find – happening to be a loveseat – and bringing it over, Spike helping her with tilting it against the door before they both turned to the hole in the floor, gaping at them as its hatch had been lifted out of place.

They hurried up to it and down the few steps bringing them into its belly, Spike grabbing the hatch and closing it just as the loveseat glided out of place and three sword tips began to chew their way through the wood of the door.

The sire vampire was pushing aside old wine bottle stands until finally he revealed another hatch in the floor.

"How did you...?" the vampiress began as he grabbed the rusted iron ring, pulling on it and making the hatch groan on its old hinges.

"You think I don't pay attention to anything, don't you?" he asked with a slight smirk, leaning the hatch against the wall behind it, meeting the vampiress' gaze for a moment before he went legs first into the unexplored hole.

"If we're unlucky that will lead to a dead end," the Slayer murmured, feeling Dexter's frame grow rigid next to her and she gave him a reassuring smile, noting Spike's eyes on her and meeting his gaze with one she knew was worried.

His face softened with a confidence that was exactly what she needed, and she felt suddenly, inexorably grateful that he was there, that he had been brought into this twisted reality with her to force her to keep in touch with what was actually her, and not what this place made her. She smiled at him then, and he returned it slowly, almost watchfully, as if his reciprocation might cause it to fade. She wished she could strip him of that guard as easily as he kept stripping her of hers.

"All's well, so far," the other vampire's voice came from below, the vampiress just about to slide down after him.

Suddenly there was light from above. The other hatch was being lifted. There was no time to loose and within a matter of seconds they were all down the second hatch, slamming it shut above their heads and being ensconced in nothing but complete darkness and the smell of old, dry earth.


	33. Miricai

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Miricai**

Slayer and Vamp and Sire and Childe

The sire vampire reached out a hand, touching the wall of soil that formed a rounded tunnel which stretched out before them into shadows overlapping shadows until their impenetrability was oppressing enough to cause him to pause, even with the sound of hands gripping for the ring above their heads.

Spike moved the sword from his left hand to his right, looking up at the hatch above his head before he brought the sword – tip first – through the wood of it. There was a slight pause of movement above and he looked quite pleased, when suddenly five swords were driven downwards and he jumped out of the way, pressing his back against the dirt wall of the tunnel.

"Time to go," he said and the others agreed, simultaneously beginning to move further into the tunnel as quickly as the formation of their party would allow them.

The Slayer was last, pulling the sword out of the hatch again before she hurried in the footsteps of Spike, who was in front of her. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the weapon in her hand and rolling his eyes slightly. She ignored him.

They heard the sound of voices grow louder behind them as the hatch was lifted, there was soft clanking of metal against metal as the men jumped into the tunnel and took up pursuit.

"Faster!" the vampiress urged and they tore through the tunnel, still with no idea of where it was taking them.

"Ow!" the vampire in front of her grunted, one hand on his forehead as he looked up and saw a thick root hanging out of the tunnel ceiling.

The vampiress smirked, placing her hands on his back and pushing him to keep up the pace.

"Look," she said, and he nodded, having seen it as well: there was a wall of leaves up ahead, blocking their escape. "Spike, slow..." she began, but he sped up and leaped straight through the blanket of twigs and green, "...down," she finished, stopping in front of the spot he had disappeared through.

She felt Dexter practically slam into her back, hearing the other two come to a halt behind him.

She reached out a hand slowly toward the upright thicket, drawing a sharp breath when a hand came through it, grabbing her wrist in a tight grip. She was pulled forward and stepped through the obstacle with it scratching itself against her, pulling at her locks, but releasing her without objection and she stood on the forest floor beside the vampire, his hand lingering on her arm as their eyes met. She smiled a little at him, almost thanking him, but feeling it would sound out of place and so she kept it down. There was something in his gaze now that hadn't been there before, but she wasn't sure if it was recognition or a rawer form of fear, though she couldn't quite figure out what would scare him, what possibly could scare him after everything they'd already been through.

Dexter fought his way out as well, blinking in the soft moonlight coloring the world blue and gray.

The vampiress was about to ask about the other two when she heard the unmistakable sound of blade against blade.

**x**

The Slayer swung the sword again, clashing it with that of her attacker, his bearded face glaring at her with menace and something not far from indignation – as if he disliked fighting a woman. She had seen it before, and it never stopped producing a certain kind of rage inside of her. She pulled her arm back and sunk the sword into the man's stomach, pulling it out and watching him fall before she met the gaze of those behind him. They did not look happy.

She gave them a sly smile before she grabbed the handle of the weapon with both hands and thrust it upwards, into the ceiling of the tunnel, twisting it two times before she bended it backwards. There was a low rumble and as she turned around, yelling for Spike to get moving, the ceiling began to crumble, chunks of it coming loose, tearing the walls with it, an avalanche of pebbles and bits of dirt serving to seal the tunnel up behind them as they, too, jumped through the covered exit and joined the others outside.

"We have to keep moving," the Slayer said.

They quickly climbed the steep hill that the exit had been located in, the forest silent and regarding around them. They heard shouting in the distance and knew that they were being tracked. Their step quickened, but Dexter couldn't quite keep up.

"We need transportation," the Vamp stated and Buffy had to agree, glancing at the vampiress and her sire as they all slowed their pace, Dexter drawing heavy breaths of air and leaning over with his hands on his knees.

"I have a car," he got out between gulps, "back at the hotel."

"Back at the hotel," the sire vampire muttered, and the vampiress shoved a pointy elbow into his side.

The Slayer looked at Spike, who gave a slight nod.

"Keys?" he asked Dexter.

"In the ignition."

Spike cocked an eyebrow at that.

"You have to be fast," the Slayer said as he turned to leave.

"I know," he replied.

"No, I mean, really fast," she said and he rested his eyes in hers before he smiled the hint of a smile which warmed the blue of his eyes until she could feel her skin burning.

"I know," he repeated, being gone in the next blink and she swallowed, her heart pounding with the sudden thought of never seeing him again.

She looked around for a place to hide, spotting a dense cluster of trees and bringing the others over to it. Their pursuers didn't seem to move with much stealth, there being so many of them, but nevertheless, their numbers did unnerve her. Dozens of them. They had littered the lawn of the hotel and had surrounded the large building quite efficiently, which naturally meant that there must have been at least triple the number she and Spike had been able to see through that window. He was fast, but they might be faster. He might not be careful enough and they might see him get in the car, or the car might not start, or they might surround it and block his path and drag him out and...

The sound of a motor stopped her train of thought and she felt relief like a tightly twisted piece of lace being released to spread its sincere beauty within her.

She pulled Dexter with her out of the trees as the car slowed to a stop right by them – Spike behind the wheel. The vampiress and vampire followed and they all got in: the Slayer, Dexter and the vampiress in the back while the vampire took the empty passenger seat next to Spike, who glanced over his shoulder at them, as though counting them and making sure they were all there, before he put the car in gear and got it moving again, speeding up and soon enough reaching the larger road.

Chicago was twenty-five minutes away.

Salvation seemed close enough to touch.

**x**

Dexter was sitting with his hands on his knees, staring unseeingly on the road ahead. The vampiress put a hand on his arm comfortingly.

"I'm very sorry about this," she said.

"It's not your fault," he replied. "If I only knew why I am being hunted by these people."

"They're assassins," the Slayer said. "They're probably having the time of their lives. Fun is a great motivator, you know."

"Assassins?" Dexter asked, suddenly thoughtful.

"We found a coin," the Slayer nodded. "It's like a private kind of currency for – "

"Do you have it?" Dexter interrupted her. She nodded. "May I see it?"

Buffy dug around in the pocket of her jacket and brought the coin out, handing it to him.

"Pardon me," he said, turning on the light in the car ceiling to examine the coin. He turned it over several times, bringing it an inch from his bespectacled gaze before he slowly raised his eyes from it. "My God," he mumbled. "My God, my God."

"Is he praying?" the sire vampire asked with a frown, turning around partially in his seat to look at the human.

"This insignia belongs to the lord Impari," Dexter said. "As far as I know the lord Impari is the collector wishing to own the Mark of Nebulon. He was the one who announced interest – through the subtlest of channels, of course – and I was certain he would be the one to possess it, since no other collector has the sort of power he does. He's managed to engage a large number of Miricai, these assassins, and pays them with their currency, though it has his insignia burned into one side, so that everyone will know where the coin came from, ensuring that his army's headcount is kept public knowledge. No one messes with this demon, I can assure you of that: least of all me. But now he must believe that I still have the dagger. I can't imagine why."

He gave the Slayer back the coin, slumping against the backrest and looking spent of all his energy as his brain digested this news.

"Right," the vampire driving said. "Or left?" he added and the Slayer saw that they were approaching a fork in the road.

"Left," she replied.

**x**

Willow held the paper up, examining the order of the symbols depicted on it for, what must have been, the hundredth time. She traced the lines of the four nondescript symbols with one finger, growing thoughtful. There was something about them that felt obvious, and if she could only grasp one of theirs meaning, she could decipher all of them.

There were six of them.

The most discernable one resembled a hand, with five lines stretching out from one central point; a hand could mean any number of things: enlightenment, the number five, a warning or a greeting were only on the top of the list. The next symbol was cut as two parallel lines running alongside each other, forming a track or path, which could mean a journey, the choice between different directions, but usually stood for death, things coming to an end. She didn't really care for that one. The four symbols following this one, however, were the real puzzles. The first of these was almost identical to one made up of two parallel lines, only cutting through them in this symbol was a third, straight line, possibly standing for an obstacle needing to be overcome. The second had two lines crossing each other, resembling the upper body of a human, with two shorter lines added to the ends of the line creating the human's shoulders, making it look as though his arms had been bent partially at the elbows. Willow was at a complete loss with this symbol, and was even more confounded by the third, which showed a triangle being run through by a line, followed by the last symbol, which was the same, only the triangle had been filled in with jagged marks.

The order of the symbols was different from that of the forged dagger, which was the biggest revelation since this was what had thrown Giles off when they were trying to decrypt the message. The last four symbols had been in reverse order on the forgery, and now that the sequence was as it should be, Giles seemed tireless in his struggle with it. There was one thing which worried Willow more than she wanted to express, however: where the X had started the sequence of the forged weapon, it was now last. This could not bode well since an X at the beginning of a sequence was known to proclaim a blessing, whereas it occurring at the end most certainly declared a curse. If it was a curse, there was no way to go around it, and the sacrifice demanded would have to be carried out, no matter if they managed to read the message or not.

Giles seemed set on ploughing through every book known to him despite this fact, researching ancient texts on sacrifice and ritual, on mythological weapons both human and demon, and all the bits and pieces of information which had trickled down through history on the Mark of Nebulon itself, trying to fuse it all together into a coherent structure which might form an arrow pointing them in the right direction of an answer on how to unlock the message on the dagger.

"Perhaps," he now mumbled, straightening himself from his slouched position over yet another dusty volume, meeting Willow's gaze as she observed him quizzically. "Perhaps we are looking in the wrong place," he murmured.

She furrowed her brow slightly.

**x**

The street lay deserted, looking more like a graveyard for the bustle of the previous day: the sheets of free newspapers littering the sidewalk; discarded take-away coffee cups having been left to waste away in the gutter; a teddy bear having been found by someone and placed on a fence in clear view for whoever might come looking for it. The vampiress took all these details in as they passed them, wondering what lives had been touched by these daily, nondescript items; wondering if anyone somewhere else had ever seen anything which she had discarded or left behind and wondered about the stranger that was her. She felt sad, suddenly; and yet as though the sadness had been there all along.

That was when they came to a halt outside a large building, towering over them with something of a discouragement in its appearance. The vampiress felt as though a mist was settling within her, making everything dreary, far away, obscure and looking up at the massive structure before them did nothing to sooth it away.

She turned her head and rested her gaze in the eyes of her sire, and some of the dreariness blurred. He looked away from her and up at the building, but she let herself watch him for a few more moments of vulnerable need before she moved her gaze to the Slayer.

She was squinting to read the sign along the front. It wasn't possible, even with paranormal sight, it was to weather worn. She had a feeling, however, that it didn't matter in the slightest.

A chilly wind came sweeping down the street, tugging at the vampire's respective duster and making the Slayer and Dexter wrap their arms around themselves for protection. They all turned to face the door. It was made of darkened steel, covered with star-shaped bolts and looked old, but strong. The sire vampire raised one hand.

"What are you doing?" Dexter stopped him. "You never touch that door," he added, in a rather conspiratorial voice, as though he wasn't sure who else but they might be listening. "You go around back," he finished, jerking his head for them to follow him into the narrow alley to the left of the building.

The wind didn't reach there and the sudden silence left the vampiress with an oddly foreboding sensation down her back.

"Do we touch _this_ door?" the sire vampire inquired as they stopped before the second door, colored a deep maroon from rust.

"Yes," Dexter replied, raising one hand and knocking hard, three times.

"What – no secret knock?" the vampire asked in mock-interest, the mortal looking unimpressed as the door swung open and a grunt was heard from the shadows beyond it.

Dexter removed the hat on his head, twisting it between his hands as he looked in through the opening before them.

"What's with that thing anyway?" the sire vampire murmured with a look at the mass of red fabric, but Dexter shook his head a little, eyes still focused ahead.

"We wish to see–..." he then began ceremoniously.

"Door's open, ain't it?" a gruff voice interrupted and the demon it belonged to bent down slightly, bringing his bumpy, sallow and clayish face into the light, peering at them with big, yellow eyes. "Step on through."

"Oh," Dexter said, looking around at the others. "Informal," he mumbled mostly to himself as he proceeded through the doorway.

The others followed, a hush having settled over them all as they entered the vastness of the empty warehouse.


	34. Within

**Chapter Thirty-Four: Within**

Slayer and Vamp and Sire and Childe

The Slayer kept her eyes straight ahead as the group stayed close by one another, entering the building. They were all rather tense and she could tell Spike was rigid with anticipation. She averted her thoughts from him as their destination began to materialize in the middle of the expanse of cement floor. Her brow creased lightly as she took in the half-finished structure they were approaching. It looked quite old and consisted mostly of wooden beams, though some were steel bars criss-crossing themselves to form something imitating a barricade. A few portions of these makeshift walls had been clad with tattered boards, but they lacked paint or any sort of promise that the construction was to be finished.

The Slayer furrowed her brow as she stepped through a gap between two of these walls, serving as entrance – or so she presumed. It was so odd, but she felt as though she had been there before.

"You are welcome," a voice said and a tall demon came into sight, his grey robes dragging softly on the floor, lightly stirring the dust before he came to a stop before them.

He was at least four heads taller than the Slayer and she slowly tilted her head back, her gaze meeting two black eyes, the slim, green slit in their middle widening slightly as he observed her.

"It is quite the dismal place you bring with you," he commented and she raised her eyebrows questioningly.

He hmh-ed thoughtfully, not offering any further explanation as he turned to the others and addressed them one at a time as well.

She watched them, beginning to get the sincere feeling that they weren't having the same experience as she: the vampiress looked happy as she glanced around the dreary room, and the sire vampire kept stealing uncertain glances toward the left – where, as far as the Slayer could see, there was nothing but what could have passed for a window.

She suddenly thought she saw something move outside of it and began to tense up, staring hard at the shadows beyond it, but not seeing anything more. As she was about to turn away, a noise on the opposite side of the room made her head swivel that way, and this time there was no doubt that she had seen something move so fast it was nothing but a blur, even to her enhanced sense of vision.

"It's not safe," she mumbled, taking a step forward and readying herself for an attack. "It's not safe," she repeated, hoping to get the others' attention.

"What's not safe?" Spike asked as he joined at her side, looking the way she was. "There's nothing there."

And when she turned her eyes away from him, back at the spot from where she had been so convinced she could sense some dark evil emanating, she realized that he was right. There was nothing there. Just pieces of wood that felt as stripped bare and without function as she did in that moment.

"Buffy," Spike said and one of his hands placed itself between her shoulder blades before gliding comfortingly down her spine to the small of her back, where it encouragingly settled to steer her away from the previous moment and into the next, which was to face Sir Intagar as he was addressed by Dexter.

The touch was brief and noncommittal, its movement declaring that its giver asked nothing more than to be permitted to bring her out of her previous state of mind and help her focus on what lay more pressingly at hand. It didn't last for more than a few seconds, and still it felt as though it compiled itself into everything around her; becoming the structure itself and forming the question within her mind asking her why it was that it was so incomplete.

She didn't know how she could possibly know the answer.

She directed her gaze toward Sir Intagar, and Dexter, who was about to open his mouth and speak.

**x**

Spike, as he stepped across the floor toward what slowly was taking shape in its middle, was amazed at what he saw. Mostly because, until he saw it, he had forgotten it had once existed, not only in his mind, but in actuality. It was the glass paned walls of a large greenhouse.

As he stepped through its doors he was ensconced it tranquil warmth, the heady scent of fresh earth and potted plants, and the sticky, humid sensation that had always made the ink of his pen blot something terrible.

He hadn't thought of this place since he left it behind, more than a century ago. He had played here, he had written lengthy, moronic verses here, he had fallen in love for the first time right there, by that ceramic pot holding some species of rose so rare that Sarah's mother didn't want it outside in the garden, fearing "the little beastly gnarlies" would come and chew her precious flowers to unrecognizable bits. He and Sarah had gone hunting for these proposed gnarlies, but had found none anywhere and had, in disappointment, felt obliged to instead make up a story about them. He could only remember snippets of it, though he could recall Sarah's laughter as it peeled through the insides of the greenhouse so vividly it actually was as though she was right there now, with him. She did love his stories. Or, she had. The sudden understanding that, by all accounts, she must be dead now, buried somewhere, made him feel helpless, anger rising within him and suddenly every single pot and plant vanished, leaving him with only their scent, the humidity melting away into a brisk chill that filled the greenhouse in a second and cleared his head, making him turn it to the side, observing Buffy standing within an arm's length.

Sir Intagar was speaking to her, but Spike wasn't entirely sure he understood what was being said.

The demon moved on, stopping before him with a slightly curious expression on his face.

"My," he murmured. "You have come far. Still have a bit left to travel, but with your eye so fixed on the target I would be mightily surprised if you missed it."

Spike was about to open his mouth and reply, but the demon merely smiled a hint of a smile and silenced him effectively.

"It's not safe," he heard Buffy mumble and he turned his gaze back on her, wonderingly.

She had her back to him and she was staring hard at the door of the greenhouse. It was closed.

"It's not safe," she repeated, this time with more urgency and he stepped closer to her.

"What's not safe?" he inquired, making sure that he wasn't missing something, but concluding he couldn't be and finishing with: "There's nothing there."

Her stance gradually relaxed, but she seemed lost in thought and before he could even properly reflect over the movement, his hand had placed itself between her shoulder blades, his fingers being stroked by her locks before his palm slid over the leather of her jacket and rested against the curve of her back, carefully making her turn to Sir Intagar and Dexter, who had faced each other.

He took his hand away before there could be any protests or dirty looks from her, even though she didn't seem prone to them lately. Even though she had returned that kiss. Something flashed brightly within him at the thought of it, but he stifled it quickly. There was no point even contemplating any ramifications it might bring, and even less any blessings.

"Sir Intagar," Dexter began and Spike turned his eyes on the mortal.

**x**

The vampiress watched in silent awe as the house at 1640 Revello Drive built itself out of the floor before her very eyes; another nail, another tile placing itself where it belonged for every step she took that brought her closer to it. She glanced at the Slayer, but she was wearing such a different expression from what the vampiress was feeling, that she quickly concluded whatever the Slayer was seeing, it wasn't the well-known house.

The vampiress climbed the steps to the front door, the others trotting along behind her and entering with her, as if it was completely normal.

The house looked exactly the way it had when she left it that night. There was a glass sitting on the desk in the living room. She picked it up, thinking of Willow, who had put it there. And one of the pillows on the couch still carried the indentation of Xander having sat on it and consequently squashed it. Buffy walked up to it, fluffing it gently, knowing that her mother would be grateful for it, instead of annoyed that it had been left in its previous, miserable state.

When she turned around the walls seemed to flicker out of sight, revealing the warehouse beyond them, but soon they were solid again, and she faced the demon standing before her with a slight smile.

"Impressive," she commended and he gave a slight bow.

"You are welcome," he smiled, toothlessly. "You," he then said, "are smudgy."

She frowned at him.

"Not exactly sure what to do with that," she replied.

"Neither am I," he said before moving on to her sire, standing next to her.

She blinked at the absolute riddle of that greeting before she spotted something in the dining room and headed over there, hearing the Slayer say, as she past her:

"It's not safe."

The vampiress merely shook her head at her, walking into the room and stopping by the dining room table, picking up the note she had left for her mother. It was blank, and she furrowed her brow. She was sure that she had written her a note, promising not to be late. Well, not to be too late, anyway. Guilt began to flake through her as she replaced the piece of paper on the table. What must her mother be going through?

"Buffy?" a voice said behind her.

"Mom," she turned around, facing her sire, who looked quizzical.

"You shouldn't be here, love," he said, as though speaking softly to a wild animal that needed soothing.

She frowned at him.

"_You're_ the one who shouldn't be here," she replied.

He suddenly looked angry and she couldn't tell the reason.

"Come here," he practically growled. "Please," he added, and it was the sincerity in that word which made her feet move and she halted in front of him.

His eyes observed her face in detail, finally locking with hers, where they rested for the longest time without him making any motion or sign that he was going to move or say anything in the nearer future.

"It comes down to one choice, doesn't it?" he murmured and it was her time to feel as though he was throwing her on the ground and stepping all over her.

"Guess it does," she said, moving her gaze from him to Dexter as she saw the mortal give a soft bow of respect to Sir Intagar. "Here we go," she added.

**x**

The sire vampire felt unsure of whether it was a wise decision to enter the almost pursed mouth of a cave which stood in the middle of a large warehouse in the more shady industrial areas of Chicago, but as the others all happily trotted through it, he figured he couldn't very well wait outside. He was about to remark on his second thoughts when he stopped right inside the slim opening, staring at the black hole in the floor of the cave, not more than five feet in front of him.

The Hellmouth.

It couldn't be the Hellmouth, since the Hellmouth was located underneath something as ironic as a bloody high school building miles from this spot, but, nevertheless, it was the Hellmouth.

He could feel it.

Prickles traveling up the skin of his arms, like pointy nails were dancing up to either of his shoulders, seemed to declare the place's recognition of one of its creatures. He thought he could sense its hot breath on his neck, fangs waiting to sink through his flesh. He shuddered, dispersing the uncanny image and struggling to remember why they were there in the first place when a demon appeared before him.

"Sir Intagar, I presume," the vampire muttered, turning his head to either side and noting that his so-called companions were still with him – he had nearly forgotten them as well.

"Spike," the demon greeted with a slight bow. "It is all slipping through your fingers unless you tighten your grip. It will not take much."

"Much?" Spike inquired, having a number of possible It's run through his head.

But the demon moved on without replying and Spike glared at it before sighing slightly. The fact that whatever he was seeing was an illusion was starting to be obvious. How it made him feel, though, was as real as anything he had ever experienced before, and it unsettled him.

He turned his head and saw his childe break away from the line-up, walking straight toward the gaping hole and its awaiting oblivion. A jolt went through him that was enough to get him moving and he walked after her, hearing the Slayer say:

"It's not safe."

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't real either, but couldn't bring the words across his lips.

"There's nothing there," was spoken, however – by the other vampire.

He didn't bother responding, but slowed to a stop not many feet behind the back of the vampiress.

"Buffy," he said, knowing that he would drag her away by force if he had to, illusion or not; unless she listened.

She was standing less than a foot away from the Hellmouth and it seemed to be slowly, but steadily, widening.

"Mom," she said, turning around, making him frown but not having time to question her about what could possibly have made her mistake him for her mother.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, his tone again betraying him and he swore quietly in his head, fighting back the urge to grab her as she was observing him coolly.

"You're the one who shouldn't be here," she bit.

He remembered then, what she had thought when he came to Sunnydale: that he wanted to be there only so that he could watch her die. He could feel the prompting expression on his face turn sour and he glared at her. Sometimes she could be a real twit.

"Come here," he demanded. And he knew he was demanding it. She didn't move. "Please," he added with all the sincerity he could manage and at last it sunk in, bringing her forward to stop in front of him.

She was impatiently waiting for him to explain why she should be standing in that spot, in that moment – but he was going to let her wait, because he thought that if he just watched her face long enough, had her look at him like he was losing his mind long enough, it just might start to make sense. All of it.

"It comes down to one choice, doesn't it?" he mumbled, the words sounding as if spoken by someone else.

His hand was about to reach out and touch hers when she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Guess it does," she replied frostily, turning her gaze out of his and fastening it on something taking place behind his back.

He was about to say something more, when Dexter's voice interrupted him.


	35. Guardian

Sincere thanks goes out to nickbuket for all three reviews and to brunettepet - your support is so wonderful! Love you both for it!

Hope these coming chapters will be enjoyable!

Kisses!

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five: Guardian**

Sire and Childe and Slayer and Vamp

"Sir Intagar," Dexter spoke, bowing his head and clasping his hands in front of him – if it was to enhance the importance of the request he was about to make, or if it was a more primitive form of showing just how much he was ready to beg, none of the others were quite sure. "I have returned to this place with a most urgent –... "

"It is why I left the door practically ajar, my friend," Sir Intagar interrupted him, placing a hand on Dexter's knotted fingers in a calming manner. "I have learned of your plight."

"You have?" the Slayer asked, unable to hide how taken aback she was.

"Yes. I understand why the dagger could not pass into the hands of the lord Impari at this crucial point in time, your friend was most persuasive," he said, the Slayer furrowing her brow.

"Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders?" the vampiress inquired.

"Broody, moody, pain-y in the ass-y?" the sire vampire filled in drily.

"No," Sir Intagar dismissed the suggestion. "Ah," he added, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as though he was listening to something. "They're here," he finished. At the tension immediately spreading among the assembled he raised his hands slightly. "They cannot see you. The magic will protect you. But there is little time. I must send you on your way."

"But – ...!" the Vamp tried, pointing at the door of the greenhouse as though this would demonstrate clearly why they couldn't possibly leave now.

"Oh, not through there," Sir Intagar shook his head, moving his arms so that his cape flowed around him like a great sail caught by a guff of wind as he turned and took a few steps further into the space before facing them all once again. "Your minds are too involved in their own version of this place that it wouldn't be safe for you to exit through the door anyway. Now – come."

They all stood quite still.

"Do you think I mean to harm you?" he asked, lowering his arms in an incensed manner, making the thin fabric of his garment billow slowly again. "Come," he repeated with even more authority and finally they all approached him.

He smiled his toothless smile at them, giving a nod in appreciation as he reached out and seized one of the Slayer's and one of the vampiress' hands in his, gesturing for the rest of them to do the same.

They all did, the Slayer slipping her fingers over Spike's hand and feeling her skin tingle strangely at his touch.

The sire vampire hesitated before he grasped hold of his childe's hand; it took a moment, but then her fingers curled around his and he resisted the urge to turn his head to her.

"Oh, and Dexter will not be joining you, so if you wish to say goodbye," Sir Intagar said, all of them turning their gaze on the ball of light which had appeared in the center of the circle they had created, "better do it quick," Sir Intagar finished his sentence, the ball of light expanding and brightening until it was difficult to look at it.

"Good –..." the vampiress began, but it was already too late, and she felt Dexter's hand disintegrate into nothing as the brightness engulfed her.

What came after was utter blackness. It took her a few stumbling seconds to realize that Spike's hand was out of hers as well and that she was standing alone in the middle of a large cave.

**x**

The woman watched the four beings that had entered her home. Three demonic, one ward: all of them paranormal, all of them bound to the other by facts that were quite unclear to them.

She watched them adjust to the dimness of the space, listened to them call out for each other, none of them able to see the others. They would be quite unaware of one another until she was satisfied with their meeting, for which dividing them had been necessary: she wanted them to focus their attention solely on her. She stepped forward into the middle of the cave, a thin beam of light falling across her face as she spoke.

"You come here with a purpose."

The four turned their heads to the sound of the voice. The woman had waist long, dark hair, and was wearing a plain, white linen robe. One of her hands reached inside one of the folds of the cloth and brought out a slim dagger.

The Slayer took a small step forward.

"Where did you get that?" she asked.

"I don't tolerate unnecessary questions," the woman stated, addressing the Slayer as well as the vampiress, who was staring at her curiously.

The words were spoken with a simplicity that was neither kind nor harsh.

"Where are the others?" the Slayer ventured.

"You are frightened," the woman said.

"Not really, I'd just like to –..."

"You are frightened of yourself," the woman stopped her. "And I don't blame you."

The vampiress and Slayer both stared at her as though they wanted to protest, but neither could get the words across their tongues and so they clearly waited for her to elaborate. She would not.

"I am sorry for all that you have gone through, all that has been lost," she said instead. "I didn't think that our first meeting would come about in this way."

She raised her gaze to the eyes of the people around her, resting it there.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Buffy," the Slayer and vampiress answered with one voice.

"Am I allowed to ask who you are?" the vampiress inquired.

"You are," the woman confirmed. "I am," she then began tentatively, "a guardian, you might say. A silent observer of the Slayer line. Where a Watcher is active, I am passive – intervening only when it is absolutely called for. In desperate situations...."

The Slayer and vampiress observed the dagger for a few moments before they both asked in one voice:

"Is there any other way?"

The woman's face saddened and she shook her head gently.

"I am sorry," she said earnestly.

**x**

The two vampires focused on the lady who silently appeared in the middle of the cave – as if she had stepped out of the sandy floor. She was neither old, nor young, she was neither beautiful, nor ugly, but she had a serenity about her which declared her goodness with an immediacy that put them both at ease.

She observed them in silence.

The sire vampire was about to open his mouth and demand to know where his childe was, when the lady parted her lips and said:

"Nothing could have saved you, you know."

He rested his eyes in hers, rather taken aback at how clear the meaning of those words were to him.

"Yeah," he finally admonished, the other vampire admitting it in the same moment, though they still had no knowledge of the other.

"You were doomed to walk on the brim of her light from the moment you first saw her," she brazenly declared, and though both vampires had a good mind to tell her she was wrong, they saw no point to it, and both solemnly answered:

"Yes."

"Close, but never near her."

"Is there a point to this?" Spike muttered.

The lady smiled gently.

"Always in the gloom of her person."

A slight pause.

"There is no gloom to her person."

The response caught the lady's attention thoroughly. She looked at the sire vampire with a gentle raise of one eyebrow, while she observed the other vampire with such a close scrutiny it made him feel as though he was physically shrinking on the spot.

"Yes, there is," she then replied meaningfully.

"Hmh," the vampires huffed, nodding. "Me." She said nothing. "Perhaps I should leave."

"You forget," she pointed out, "there can be no light without shadow."

"Yes, there can. There can't be any shadow without light," the sire vampire remarked, her eyes turning suddenly icy, making him check himself.

"If the sun shone every hour of every day, you would grow weary of it; but in its pale reflection shown by the moon, you get to appreciate it all the more. Miss it; long for it, even. And night giving way for the paling sky of a rising sun seems almost like a miracle."

"What are you saying?"

"She needs you," the lady replied.

Spike shook his head in disagreement, looking away from her. The sire vampire just smirked in disbelief.

The room suddenly spun, though the floor seemed to be completely stationary, creating a strange effect of the vampires feeling as though their upper bodies were pulled one way, while their feet were pulled another. It was over in a blink and they found themselves in the presence of those they had thought missing, standing on either side of them.

Everybody's eyes widened, the Slayer's face splitting in an unexpected smile, and Spike returned it rather guardedly.

"Was beginning to wonder," she whispered and he gave her a crooked smile.

"You never have to, you know," he whispered back before he could stop himself and he couldn't kick himself over it when it made her smile widen and her eyes brighten before she looked away from him, almost as if she didn't know what to say to that.

"Where'd you go?" the sire vampire asked the vampiress.

"I was right here. Where'd _you_ go?" she asked back, rolling her eyes slightly as she turned them back on the guardian.

Both vampires' eyes grew at the sight of the dagger.

"Hey, where'd you get that?" Spike demanded. "What is this? Why does she have it?" he asked the Slayer.

"She's a friend," she assured him.

"We have little time," the guardian said.

"How little?" the sire vampire asked.

"Not that little," she replied with a slight smile at the concern in his voice. "Rather than having to explain everything over and over, I suggest you get moving. I will come to the house when the sky is paling. Everything should be settled then."

"The house?" the vampiress asked.

The lady moved one hand in a gesture toward a rugged, pointy crack in the cave wall, situated to their left.

The guardian took a step forward and reached out for the vampiress' hand, placing the dagger in it.

"Keep it with you," the guardian said.

The vampiress nodded, half dazed at the sensation of the dagger in her hand and the slow pulse which began to run up through her arm and into her shoulder, as though the weapon had a heart beat and wished to share it with her.

The Slayer approached the narrow exit and the others followed; it was dark and smelled of moist rock. The Slayer hesitated before she made her way inside, the Vamp not far behind her. It didn't take long before they found themselves on the other side of the thick wall. They were inside what looked very much like a crypt.

"Ah-hah!" the vampire exclaimed, heading up the stairs leading to the more official exit, opening the doors and stepping out into the night.

The others weren't far behind him, stopping right behind him when they took in the familiar scope of the cemetery before them.

"Sunnydale?" the vampiress said, surprise in her voice.

"Sunnydale," Spike agreed.


	36. Home

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Home**

Slayer and Vamp and Sire and Childe

They walked in silence through the graveyard.

The Slayer felt every step as if it weighed a ton and was difficult for her legs to manage; the prospect of where this final stretch of path would lead her seemed infinitely narrow and small in comparison to the width of what had come before. She hadn't quite realized how much she had denied the fact of the vampiress' actual death being the goal of their mission, but now she felt heartsick at the thought of it.

"This can't be right," she spoke, halting and having the others face her with questioning expressions. "There has to be some way of..."

The Slayer trailed off, but the vampiress' face warmed with a soft smile before she shook her head a little.

"No," she said. "There doesn't have to be some way of," she added, her smile disappearing gradually.

She didn't look at her sire, but turned away from all of them and continued out through the open gates of the cemetery. The Slayer watched her in a quiet that seemed rank with accusations, but she couldn't voice them, because Spike had been right when he had asked her if she could blame all of it on the sire and place none of the responsibility on the childe who had chosen him. She couldn't, so what right had she to scream and berate? What good would it do? But why was he like that around her? Why didn't he comfort her? How could he be so damn selfish? He just stood there and let her walk away. She felt her gaze morph into a glare at the immobile sire before she finally walked in the wake of the vampiress.

**x**

"And what if we're right?" Willow asked, Giles glancing at her.

"Well, if we are, then it poses a new set of obstacles, doesn't it?" he replied.

"For example? For those of us not immediately seeing how high and dense the obstacles are," Xander said.

"A number of things: we don't know how much time we have, we haven't heard back from Buffy yet so God knows what sort of situation they're all in, and even if we did hear from them, there's no way of knowing if we'll even be able to track down an Orb of Thesula as it is. There are only a very few left in the world."

"Yes, we know," Oz and Xander said in unison, having heard that sentence more than a few times in the past two hours.

"So what do we do?" Willow asked.

"We wait," Giles replied, "and pray that Buffy comes through that door within the next five minutes."

"Yeah, sure, and why don't we all wear robes and silly hats and go hum-dum-di-dum, we'd like a piece of gum?" Xander huffed.

He looked up, slightly startled, at the sound of the front door opening, watching with widening eyes as the vampiress led the way inside, followed by the other three, filing in after her.

"Woah," Oz said, sitting a bit straighter and glancing at the ceiling as Xander slowly did the sign of the cross from shoulder to shoulder, forehead to stomach, Giles noticing and rolling his eyes.

"Buffy!" Willow exclaimed, getting to her feet and rushing to embrace her friend in a hard hug. "Oh, ow," she added, pulling back slightly as something sharp had poked her through Buffy's jacket.

"Oh, sorry," the vampiress said, bringing the dagger out and tossing it onto the table, it landing on one of the dozen or so books laying belly up on it.

"That's not," Giles murmured, reaching out and picking up the treasure carefully. "It is," he said, raising his eyes to the vampiress'. "This is not something you treat carelessly, Buffy, really, you should know better."

"It just hurt Willow," she replied. "I'm not being careful with that thing – it doesn't deserve it. Are you okay?" she added with a worried look at Willow, who nodded with a smile. "Did it draw blood? Let me see."

"I'm fine," Willow assured, stopping Buffy's hands as they pulled at her sweater. "Buffy," she added, unable to conceal her excitement. "There may be a way." She paused, looking at Giles, who had shifted his focus from the dagger and back on her. He gave a slight nod. "There may be a way to save you," she finished her sentence, her hold on her friend's hands tightening as the vampiress' brow furrowed wonderingly.

**x**

"As the sun sets," Giles said, tracing the symbols on the dagger, "a soul waits for direction; take it to the vessel and bid it enter; only when complete can death be defeated."

There was utter stillness as the newly arrived waited for an elaboration. Giles looked from one to the other as though he couldn't believe they weren't jumping up and down, cheering for joy.

"You see, we thought the first symbol was a hand," he began.

"But it was a sun," Willow filled in eagerly. "A setting sun, see how the rays of it stretch from the central point? And the bottom of the blade make up the horizon," she added helpfully.

"And what we thought was an eye," Giles once more attempted, and once again he was intercepted by Willow, who said:

"Was a very old demonic symbol for a soul: the outer ring is the body, and the inner is the spirit within."

Giles gave her a slight look and it dampened her elated mood somewhat, making her apologetic as she sunk back slightly in her chair. The rest of the group were seated and standing around her and Giles so that they all had a good view of the symbols in question.

"These parallel lines are a path, which in this case stands for the direction part, the soul seeking direction; and the line cutting through the path in the next symbol is a body, the vessel, the I, if you will. The following three symbols show how the vessel embraces its soul, closing its arms around it and forming a triangle, which stands for unity. The filled in triangle proclaims the unification complete and the final X tells us that death will be defeated if the body and the soul are reunited," he finished, sitting back and taking off his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose and suddenly looking extremely tired.

The vampiress placed a hand on his shoulder and he smiled wearily, replacing the glasses and meeting her gaze. She smiled half-heartedly.

"You look far from convinced," he remarked.

She hesitated, wanting to show how grateful she was to him, to all of them, for caring so much about her that they'd go to these lengths. She didn't want to offend them, but knew it was better to be completely honest.

"A stranger gave me that," she said with a slight nod at the dagger. "She'll be here at dawn. I think she's the one who's supposed to perform the ritual. I got the feeling she knows a lot more about this than we ever could." She paused, wanting to find the right words. "She told me a sacrifice has to be made, and I've accepted it."

She could sense more than she noticed her sire's gaze fastening on her form, but she couldn't bear to look at him.

"This is all just shadow play," she mumbled, taking in the books and the weapon in their midst. "And it isn't the answer." She rested her eyes in Willow's for a moment, seeing the disbelief and protests rising; to stop them she added: "I'm sorry."

She hesitated, but turned and headed into the guest bedroom, a sudden ache beginning to pound behind her forehead and she sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.

"Ruddy magic," the vampire grumbled from the doorway.

She didn't look at him.

"It never works the way you think," he continued. "And even if you manage to work it, usually..."

He trailed off and she knew he was observing her, but had no idea in what way.

"Better off without it," he finally said.

She wasn't sure if it should be a conciliation that he shared her opinion, or if it should cause her pain that he had accepted it with such careless ease. When tears rose in her eyes she concluded the latter option was clearly winning out, and she felt the fingers of her right hand clench into a tight fist in an attempt to keep herself from meeting his gaze.

He lingered for another few moments, and then he went away, and the tears slipped down her cheeks in grief-stricken processions.

**x**

The Slayer watched the sire vampire coming back into the living room, heading straight for the front door.

"Where are you - ...?"

"Out," he interrupted her, slamming the door shut behind him.

She furrowed her brow.

"Is sleep next on the agenda, 'cause I think this sofa likes me, and I like it, so we might make a go of it," Xander said, making her smirk.

"Thought you weren't that into one night stands, Xand," she remarked.

"Oh," he said with a yawn, "this won't be our first night together."

Her smirk broadened as her eyes fastened in Spike's, and suddenly her cheeks warmed to the point of igniting. The flush spread right through her, down to her toes, and got her moving toward the front door.

"Might need to..." she mumbled, checking the spindly table by the stairs for a fresh stake, grabbing one and turning around, facing the vampire who had followed her. "What?" she asked. He glanced at the weapon in her hand, practically in a strike position, the way she was clenching it. "...are you doing?" she added. "What're you doing?" she clarified.

The amused smile which had placed itself on his lips at the sight of the weapon she was wielding merely warmed at that, though, and the shakiness traveled to her legs as she remembered the cool of his skin beneath her lips, how soft it had been down his neck, and she wondered if she had touched the spot where Drusilla had bit him.

The burst of desire inside of her at that thought acted to quickly somber her up, however, and she met his gaze steadily, drawing a slight breath almost to remind herself that she was still in need of them.

"Spike," she said, soft reproach in her tone and a wondering expression settled over his face. "I can't..."

"Buffy," the vampiress interrupted as she reentered the room, her face wearing a look of calm.

The Slayer recognized it – she had felt it herself, not so very long ago, as she made the choice to jump off a tower into a glowing ball of light that was about to bleed the dimensions together. Odd, how much they had in common.

"There's somewhere I need to be," the vampiress said. "And I'd like you to come with me."

**x**

The evening was still, undisturbed except for a car driving down the street, disappearing around the curb, the noise dying away until all that was left was the three people on the porch.

The vampiress steeled herself as she heard footsteps approaching the door, its bell just having been rung. It opened, and Joyce took them all in for a few seconds before their faces even seemed to register, and then her eyes widened, glossy with emotion as she stared at her daughter. And then at the Slayer. Back at her daughter. Slowly she began to look confused.

"Mom," the vampiress said. "Can I come in?"

Joyce clasped one hand over her mouth before she spread her arms and pulled her daughter into a hard embrace. The vampiress hugged her back, a smile stealing over her face as the tension began to lift.

"Oh, I've missed you!" Joyce exclaimed, pulling back to look at Buffy's face with adoration and relief. "You had me so worried!" she added, giving the vampiress' shoulders a slight shake. "And this is your home, Buffy, I don't care what has happened or where you've been – you will never, ever have to ask permission to come inside. Never."

The vampiress blinked back the wetness in her eyes, smiling at her mother.

"That's great to hear, mom," she said. "But... I physically can't walk through the door unless you invite me in," she added with a slightly meaningful raise of her eyebrows.

Joyce looked nonplussed for a second, and then the expression gave way for understanding. She gently placed a hand by the side of her daughter's face and Buffy's first instinct was to pull away, knowing how cool her skin must feel, the heat from her mother already seeping into her, warming her. Fresh tears welled into Joyce's eyes and Buffy wanted, more than anything, to assure her that she wasn't that different.

"Come in, honey," Joyce said softly.

The vampiress felt as though something that had been cold and hard within her melted, and she knew that she had been dreading this moment ever since she found herself leaving Sunnydale behind, what felt like years ago now, but really wasn't more than a few weeks.

"You know, you walked into Giles' without permission," Spike remarked behind her and the moment broke in two as she turned a frown on him. "Just saying," he defended. "Guess the Slayer vampire doesn't need the old nod and shake, eh?"

The Slayer was frowning as well and the vampiress heard her mutter as she stepped through the doorway:

"'Nod and shake'?"

There was no response from the vampire, however, and soon the vampiress was too caught in the familiarity she immediately enjoyed as she looked around at the setting for her old life. She remembered coming down the steps of the stairs on the first day of school, when she didn't know exactly what to expect of her future, unsure if she'd meet anyone in Sunnydale that she'd like even half as much as she'd liked her shallow Los Angeles crew. She smiled now, at the memory.

"Buffy," Joyce said, "what's happening?"

The vampiress turned her attention back to the present, meeting her mother's wondering gaze and realizing that she was referring, not only to the situation, but to the two people still standing rather insecurely on the porch, hesitant of whether they should include themselves, or exclude themselves in the reunion. The vampiress smiled at them.

"Come in," she encouraged. "I have _so_ much to tell you," she added with another smile at her mother.


	37. Together Apart

**Chapter Thirty-Seven: Together Apart**

Sire and Childe and Slayer and Vamp

The sire vampire strode down the street, barely seeing the people around him, blindly heading for an unknown goal and wanting nothing more than to get there, feeling he'd know it when he saw it. He listened to the sound of his boots hitting the pavement, the creak of the leather in the duster hanging off his shoulders; his fingers twisting the rings they were wearing, one at a time: nervously, though he wouldn't admit it. He was far from calm, but didn't want to acknowledge it, because it would make it worse, this rage inside of him. If he even for a moment pretended it was there, it would spread and no more pretending would be able to make it go away, it would take over. Since he had no one and nothing to aim it at he had no idea what he could do with it, and so he held it down, smothered it with the refusal to recognize it.

He marched into an alley and stopped beneath the sign of the Bronze. He took in the letters forming the name, and then decided against it – there was nothing worse than sitting at a bar counter alone. Well, at least if you weren't hunting. He continued further into the alley and batted away the thoughts of the first time he had ever seen her, the first time he had watched her dancing, something staying with him, haunting him, berating him, mocking and strong in the way it clutched onto him, as though trying to convince him... trying to convince him of...

He shook his head in aggravation, reaching the closed and locked gates of a cemetery and jumping over them, landing gracefully and not stopping, continuing across the wider path and onto the grass, in between graves, between the dead, beginning to slow down at last and finally stopping completely, slowly tilting his head back and looking up at the night sky.

The last time he had observed it in this way he had been with her, on a hill in a city now far away. Left behind. He had spoilt it then, taken that smile she had given him and shown her how ridiculous it had been, how little it meant to him. And here, under the same sky, in a different city, where everything seemed to originate, all he could feel was rage.

**x**

The Slayer entered the kitchen the most self-conscious that she had ever been around her mother. Joyce was making tea, filling the kettle, already having brought an assortment of flavors out and put them neatly on a tray. Buffy found herself smiling, rather suddenly.

"Got any hot cocoa?" she asked, Joyce turning around with a slight jump. "Oh, I'm sorry," Buffy apologized. "I didn't mean to sneak."

Joyce smiled at her.

"Sneak away," she encouraged, putting the kettle on the stove and turning to Buffy with a warm expression in her eyes. "It's strange to see you with long hair. Feels like ages since you had it really long."

Buffy smiled.

"Ah, but this isn't really long, compared to sixth grade," she remarked.

Joyce returned the smile.

"Are things the same here?" she asked.

"You mean the same as...? Yes, mostly," Buffy answered. "The houses and streets. A few buildings are missing where I'm from, but none that were that important anyway."

Joyce's smile widened and Buffy felt how much she had longed for it, how empty the house had seemed without it.

"Thank you for bringing her home," Joyce said, Buffy shaking her head.

"It was her choice."

"In any case, I'm grateful," Joyce insisted, eyeing her for a moment before she added: "This may sound out of place." She paused, searching for the right words, until finally she said: "I want to tell you that I'm really very proud of you. You're my daughter, even if I didn't actually go through seventeen hours of labor to have you. I feel I need you to know that I'm very proud to be your mother. And it doesn't matter what form you come in." She made a slight pause, resting her gaze in the Slayer's with the honesty of her sentiments in full view before she turned back to the kettle and mumbled: "She's still my Buffy."

"I know," Buffy said.

The kettle declared the water to be boiling and Joyce grabbed it.

"Could you get me the milk?" she asked.

Buffy grabbed it out of the fridge and brought it over to her, Joyce taking it from her and pouring some of it into a pan on the stove, beginning to heat the liquid up as she brought out the box of cocoa powder from one of the cabinets.

"Mom," Buffy said and Joyce met her gaze questioningly. It was Buffy's turn to pause, but she felt she needed to say it, and so she did. "I love you."

Joyce smiled then, stopping her stirring and pulling Buffy into a tight hug, the Slayer closing her eyes at breathing her mother's well-known scent.

"I love you, too," Joyce said.

**x**

They headed into the living room once the tea and cocoa was prepared, Joyce setting the tray down on the table as Buffy had a seat next to Spike on the couch. Joyce handed the vampiress her cup, placing one in front of the vampire and reaching the one with cocoa out to the Slayer, who took it, but paused as she looked into it.

"Oh," she said, reaching it over to Spike, who was just about to take his off the table, "that's for you," she added, using her free hand to snatch the other one he had been given for herself.

He took the offered cup, seeing its contents and moving his eyes into hers with a widening smirk on his mouth. She smiled a half-smile back before hiding it behind her cup of tea.

"No cookies?" he asked.

"I'm so sorry, we're all out," Joyce replied, his eyes going to hers as his smile widened before he glanced back at the Slayer, who was smiling as well, though she refused to meet his gaze.

"Didn't mean it like that," Spike said to Joyce. "I was told that you never hand out cocoa without a cookie."

"He's not teasing you, he's teasing me, and he's stopping now," the Slayer said, putting her cup on the table before she looked at the vampiress, whose eyes had glazed slightly and she looked like she was very far away.

**x**

Actually, the vampiress was wondering what it would have been like to have a sister. If the Slayer had been her twin, what would it have been like to have someone to share everything with: every wound, every struggle, every new ending of the world? Being the Slayer had caused extreme isolation within her; donning the leader hat and always making the big decisions had led her down one path while her friends walked another, within arm's reach, but still removed from her, and she felt that at the end of that path there had always been an enormous hurdle which she'd had to – consequently – overcome by herself. She felt she would have liked having someone with her; no matter how many fights they would certainly have had over stupid things that they disagreed on, it would have been nice to have had someone who could and wanted to understand her completely.

She fastened her eyes in the Slayer's and realized that she had been watching her.

"...bloody delicious, what do you put in it?" the vampiress heard Spike's voice ask.

"Well, I never reveal my secrets, but I'll tell you that I always use dark chocolate, gives more flavor, and then I add a bit of vanilla to take away the bitterness," Joyce replied.

The Slayer looked away from the vampiress, turning her gaze on Joyce instead, and the vampiress could see a sudden flash of pain on the other's face.

"Brilliant," Spike said, having another mouthful of the sweet liquid.

"I spoke with your father," Joyce said to the vampiress.

"You told him?" the vampiress wondered.

"Of course I told him, he has every right to know."

"I wasn't going to say he doesn't. It's just... Well, the way he freaked over the 'incident', I'm just not sure if he'd be able to handle it," the vampiress said.

"'Incident'?" Spike asked, the Slayer giving him a look to butt out of the conversation, making him raise his eyebrows innocently.

"I burned down a gymnasium," the vampiress replied, the vampire looking quite shocked. "There were vampires in it," she added, and the shock evaporated.

"But, honey, you have to admit that that reason still sounds a little..." Joyce trailed off in search of the right word.

"Nuts?" Spike offered.

"I was going to go with confused, but, yes," Joyce said. "Buffy, he loves you; he's as worried as I am about you. He just wants to know that you're okay."

"Yeah," the vampiress murmured, Joyce reaching out a hand and gently stroking a lock of hair out of Buffy's face, making her smile a little.

The Slayer rose and everybody looked at her.

"I'm sorry, I need to go," she excused herself, heading into the hallway and grabbing her jacket before walking out through the front door.

The three remaining stared at the empty spot she had just occupied, and then Spike got to his feet, going after her, the door closing behind him as well and the silence of the room seeming perfect for the vampiress to say something, perhaps begin to tell her mother of all the circumstances that had brought her back to Sunnydale, but meeting Joyce's gaze again, she found that she couldn't. Not right now. For now, she wanted to simply be, it was so much like it always had been; it was so much what she needed.

**x**

Spike hurried in the wake of the Slayer, down the steps of the porch, catching up with her at the curb of Revello Drive.

"Buffy," he said, for the third time, reaching out to grab her arm just as she swirled around to face him, making him retract his hand quickly as her gaze met his. "Buffy," he repeated, this time more softly at the pain on her face.

"What?" she practically exclaimed. "What is it that you want?"

His brow furrowed at her sudden anger, but it only seemed to add stokes to the fire as she glared at him. Then she huffed, shaking her head at him or herself, he couldn't be sure, and then she turned from him, stepping off the curb and continuing into the street. He watched her for a second, and then became aggravated as well.

"What do you think I want?" he called after her and she paused her step again, turning partially to him.

He approached her, stopping before her, observing her features with longing and exasperation battling within him.

"I try not to think about you at all," she sneered and he grabbed her as she made to leave again, making her rest her eyes in his, her scent going to his head, her hands against his chest, her body tensing.

"And yet you bring me cocoa," he remarked, something brief and good humored appearing in her eyes, softening her face, making it look as if ready to bear a smile, before it slowly hardened again. "I see," he murmured. "But you want me to tell you what I want?" he asked, her hands pushing against him, but her head tilted back slowly, as if in expectance.

"I don't want anything from you," she murmured. "Let go."

"You want me to?" he wondered quietly, not able to hold down a smirk and she tore loose, pushing him to take a few steps back. "You want me well enough when it suits you, Slayer," he called after her as she walked away. "Never when it suits me, though," he muttered to himself, glancing back at the house and figuring he was even less wanted in there.

He hesitated, uncertain of which way to choose, before he turned and headed in the opposite direction of her.

**x**

"'Want me well enough when it suits you'," she mimicked, her irritation growing. "Yeah, because he presumes to know me and all my inner on-goings. Like I _want_ him. Like I _want_ him around. It isn't me, is it? It's this place, you moron!" she yelled to the empty street behind her.

Of course, Revello Drive was even farther behind, and she doubted the vampire would be listening. That doubt made her suddenly angry with him, thinking how he dropped bomb after bomb on her head and didn't even stick around to watch them explode. Wasn't that what he was there for? His entire reason for existing? Watching her go down in flames? And what did he do? He fondled and pulled and tugged like she was something that would break if he was careless. Where had that good, old-fashioned hatred gone?

Maybe it hadn't gone. Maybe it had never rooted itself properly, and had been easily brushed away by new circumstances. Maybe it was the lie, and this was real.

"No," she grumbled, looking up and noticing, a little astonished, that she had entered the fourth cemetery without realizing this had been where she was headed. "There's nothing here that's real."

She slowed her step to a stroll, taking in her surroundings properly and wrapping her arms around her, remembering walking here, not very long ago, feeling as if she was half asleep and shouldn't be, since there was a pounding in her chest which refused to let her relax for even a moment. All the pain she had felt, all that sorrow and grief, longing to go back, if only for one night, to sleep beneath the Earth, to rest, she had somehow seen it reflected in his eyes. For the first time, she had looked into his gaze and actually seen something other than the demon, as if death had brought her to see life where before she had only seen cold and darkness. As if there was something trapped and all she had to do was push on the pin securing the cage door, and release it.

The sound of low moaning made her stop, her ears perking, trying to determine if it was an I-need-help-desperately moan, or another kind all together. Strangely, she thought she recognized it.

She moved up to a small crypt, peeking around the corner and frowning at the sight that met her.

Spike – she quickly determined it wasn't her Spike – lying pinned to the ground under a massive headstone. It was barely a headstone, it was more a head-monolith fit for the grave of Goliath. She couldn't walk away from this without an explanation, no matter how much she may have wanted to leave him there, at least for an hour or two.

Stepping into sight, her eyebrows rising, her arms crossing themselves over her chest, she waited for him to take note of her presence. It wasn't a long wait. He wasn't able to move and look at her, but he did say:

"Bloody hell, you just gonna stand there and watch?"

"Are you so very surprised?"

He was silent for a few moments before he huffed.

"'Spose not," he grumbled, stopping his strenuous and futile attempts at moving the lump of rock on top of him and relaxing, his arms out to the sides in quite a pathetic pose.

"You know," she said, moving closer, stopping at his side so that he could turn his head and look up at her, "this is the first time I think I actually like the sight of you since we got here."

"Funny, that," he cocked an eyebrow, "this is _not_ your best angle."

She narrowed her eyes, unwound her arms and began to walk away.

"Alright, bloody hell! Come back here!"

She smirked, but repositioned herself next to him, squatting down to have a closer look at his bloodstained face.

"Kuwarq demon?" she asked. "Mind telling me how he got spattered all across your cheeks?"

"I didn't fight him," Spike replied.

"He just spontaneously combusted?"

"I didn't challenge him," Spike changed his former statement.

"Ah," she said. "So, he jumped you? That leather – works its magic every time, huh?"

Spike reached his arms out for her, but didn't even grace her, and it produced another smile on her mouth.

"It wasn't my fault. He bloody attacked! I had to defend myself. Wasn't my fault he got hurt, was it?"

"Oh, is this where I reassure you that it wasn't? Because, in my world, killing unfriendly, bloodthirsty demons is a good thing."

"Meaning I, in your eyes, am now guilty of having done a good thing?" Spike shot and she opened her mouth to speak, before smirking again.

"Grows on you, doesn't it?" she asked.

"Oh, will you just help get this thing off me so we can part our merry ways already?" he snapped.

"I'm merry! Very," she smirked, rolling her eyes at the dark glare he directed at her, reaching down and taking a firm hold on the solid rock.

He braced his hands against it as well and they both heaved with all their might, the wider base of the grave-monolith digging into the earth as they shifted its weight off the vampire and pushed it heavily to the side, it landing with a soft thump in the grass.

The vampire splayed himself with a groan on the ground, stretching his body out before relaxing, opening his eyes to look up at the Slayer. She felt quite neutral at his freed state, but there was some sort of rush when his gaze locked with hers, as if she actually felt good about helping him.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, sitting up.

"You're welcome," she replied tartly. "Really. It was my pleasure."

He smirked at that and she gave him a look not to go there before she stood.

He dug around inside his duster, bringing out a flask and having her crinkle her nose as she watched him take a swig. He turned his eyes in hers again, reaching the flask out to her. She was about to shake her head, when she found herself accepting it, sitting back down on the ground with a slight sigh, bringing the flask to her lips and letting the liquid slip over her tongue before it burned its way down her throat, heating up her stomach effectively. She met his gaze as she handed the flask back, and wondered at the sudden recognition she felt at that glint of humor in his eyes.

"So," she said, "come here often?"

He smirked widely, taking a swig of the alcohol and shrugging.

"'S quite nice, innit?" he asked. She had to smile at that. "What?" he wondered.

"No, you just... kind of live here," she answered.

"Kind of as in sometimes you stumble on my sleeping corpse lying about in the grass kind of, or kind of as in nailing bloody pictures to a headstone?" he inquired.

"Why are you getting defensive?"

"I'm not bloody getting defensive, I'm bloody pissed off at the thought that anyone resembling me as much as that git of yours would actually stoop to setting up sun-protection in a sodding graveyard. I hope you're bloody proud of yourself," he spat.

"Me?"

"You think he'd actually do something so undignified unless he was absolutely bloody..."

"Yeah, yeah," she interrupted impatiently.

He eyed her for a moment, having another taste from the flask, offering it to her again, but she declined this time.

"Yeah, yeah?" he asked.

"And what about you?" she countered.

"My yeah-yeah is a kaleidoscope of rainbows and laughter, I thought it was sodding obvious," he quipped.

"Right, and you came here looking for a fight because you're Multi-Colored Joyful Guy," she remarked dryly.

"No, I came here looking for a quiet, dark place where I could drink. Alone. The fight just sort of..."

"...stumbled over your corpse lying about in the grass?" she offered, receiving a look of impatience for the effort. "And what about Buffy?"

"What about Buffy?"

"She might not want to drink alone."

"She's not alone."

"Ever had that feeling when you're in a room with a bunch of people who're having a good time, and you still feel like the loneliest person in the world?"

He cocked an eyebrow.

"No."

The Slayer sighed, looking down at her hands for a few moments, drifting into thoughts.

"So, where is the other me? Shouldn't it be him sitting here in the moonlight getting you drunk?" he smirked, taking another swig of the liquor.

She huffed and got to her feet, brushing the earth off her jeans. She glanced at him before she walked off.

"Was it something I said?" he called after her, but she could her him sniggering to himself: he wasn't expecting a reply.

**x**

Willow stared hard at the computer screen, scrolling down the list of names and reading them out loud under her breath, wishing she could find one that was on the list Giles had given her. There were not many people – or demons – that could be in possession of an orb of Thesula, and most of them were not exactly listed on the Internet, but Giles had insisted she keep on searching; somewhere, someone might have mentioned one of the names, and even if it was only in passing, it might prove vital if they were to track them down.

Personally, she felt as though she had lost hope the second Buffy had told them that this wasn't the way. She trusted Buffy's judgment more than anyone's – even her own, at times – and if Buffy said there was no point to their search, then odds were against there being even a bluntness to their search, their search probably wouldn't even make a dent in the bigger scheme of things.

"Hold on," Willow mumbled, scrolling back up.

She clicked on the site and felt herself begin to tremble slightly as the homepage came into view, displaying the old-fashioned etching of a handsome man. His eyes had been colored red, though, and she knew immediately that this was really a demon. His name read Flink, and she turned from the computer to the table, where Xander, Oz, Giles and Kendra were sitting – Giles reading through another thick volume, looking more stubborn than ever; while the other three mostly sat waiting.

"Flink," Willow said. "I found him."

Giles was at her side in an instant, leaning closer to the screen, which flickered in protest and made him pull back with an exasperated huff.

"Blooming technology," he murmured tiredly.

"Now, now, be nice, or it might not want to play," Xander warned as he joined them.

"Where is this demon?" Kendra inquired, watching the screen.

"Oh, he's in..." Willow began, reading the text quickly and turning a defeated look on Giles as she finished: "Bolivia. We can't go to Bolivia. Can we?"

Giles smiled weakly, taking his glasses off slowly, but forgetting to polish them as his eyes seemed to get caught on something no one else could see, his forehead wrinkling in thought.

"If he has an orb of Thesula, we will get it here," he then said, replacing his glasses, twirling on one heel and marching into the office of the high school library, picking up the phone. There was a slight pause, and then he asked loudly: "Who wrote the article?"

"John Figarro," Willow answered.

"Does he really think all he has to do is pick up the phone and it'll call this guy, or?" Oz asked, incredulous.

"He knows very many nice and important people," Willow replied. "And, also, the Slayer Council has records on just about everybody. They're a little scary that way."

"I don't know, Will," Xander said quietly. "Maybe it'd be better if he just faced the fact that Buffy's-..."

"Maybe," Willow cut in. "But, what if," she added. "Do you want to quit, if there's a what if?"

"There's always a what if," Kendra remarked.

"Right," Willow gave a nod. "It's almost dawn," she added. "If we haven't got it by then, Giles'll have to face the fact. We all will."

Xander's expression dropped and she realized that he had wanted her to ensure him that Giles was right, rather than agree with his scepticism. But how could she comfort him when she found it so difficult to comfort herself. In a few hours, it would all be for nothing, and Buffy would be gone.


	38. Last Glimpses

Much thanks to nichbuket (since I can't PM you, I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate hearing from you, thanks so much for taking the time out to leave me your thoughts!), cordy (for all six!), XxNovellaxX (welcome, thrilled you like!), Brunettepet (for all five!) and CliCliR (don't know how far you've gotten, but I hope you'll read on to this chapter and when you get here - hey!) :)

Much love to all of you! Your support of the story means everything to me!

Hugs from the author and her muse.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Eight: Last Glimpses**

_Sire and Childe and Slayer and Vamp_

The sky slowly began to pale, announcing that darkness was about to bow down to rays of light that forced it to retreat and hide its stars behind its thin veil of blue.

The Slayer entered the house quietly, closing the door behind her and thinking of the strangeness that this house had never seen her sister, and how it never would. She gazed up the stairs, assuming that her mother and the vampiress had gone to bed – considering whether to wake them now, or when their guest arrived – but when she turned her head to her left, she realized there was no need to go upstairs: they were asleep on the sofa, the heavy curtains pulled before the windows, shutting out the light. The vampiress was resting in Joyce's arms and the Slayer missed her mother so much that a sharp pang went off near her heart and startled her into movement. She walked into the kitchen, resolved to make some sandwiches and get the kettle boiling before the others arrived.

It didn't take long for Xander to knock on the backdoor. He was carrying a bag and was looking slightly frazzled. The Slayer gave him a smile, which he returned as he headed into the living room. A second knock alerted her to the arrival of Willow, who looked weary, but had a glow about her that spoke of hope – or durable will-power, the Slayer wasn't sure which. Oz wasn't far behind, looking mostly tired. They both said a brief "hello" and walked in the wake of Xander.

"Where's Giles?" she called to the other two, being hushed at by Xander, leading her to conclude that the vampiress and Joyce had yet to be woken.

Willow returned to the kitchen to reply:

"He's on his way. He had something to take care of first."

The Slayer raised her eyebrows, but refrained from asking more questions since she had a good idea what this whole thing was regarding.

"Do you know if there are any matches?" Willow added.

"I have a lighter," the voice of the Vamp sounded as he came into the room from the hallway, holding the silver lighter up to Willow, who took it with a slight smile and headed back into the living room. "They're setting up candles in there, are we having a séance?" he inquired, the Slayer meeting his gaze and feeling slightly light-headed, before she shook it. "Oh, is this about the?" he asked, approaching her and she tensed, feeling rather ridiculous about it.

"Yeah, it's about the," she answered, turning to face him, the buttering knife positioning itself between them.

He smirked, but gave a slight bow and retreated, disappearing into the living room as well. She felt as though she should have been relieved that he had gone away without any fuss, but it unsettled her – it was too unlike him. Where had he gone? Where had he been all night? A fleeting thought scratched itself through her mind of him having found himself some slinky, slutty piece of forgetfulness and she managed to completely ruin a slice of bread, shredding it with the buttering knife, blaming the fridge-cold butter and tossing the bread out as her cheeks burned with unsolicited disapproval.

The door once more opened and she didn't turn around as she said:

"Good, you're here. They're in the living room, setting up the candles. Have you really thought this through?"

"I couldn't not be here," Angel replied and at the sound of his voice she turned around, surprised.

He smiled a little and she felt herself begin to relax at the well-known expression. He always seemed so calm, so in control, not like the hot-headed, temper-ignorant moron in the other room who seemed to think every chance to have an argument should be taken.

"Hi," she smiled. "Sorry, thought you were Giles."

"I figured. So – living room?"

She nodded and he headed that way, meeting Xander and giving a nod as greeting, Xander stopping in front of the Slayer and she raised her eyebrows wonderingly.

"Could you make me a peanut butter and jelly one? Heavy on the peanut butter, light on the jelly?" he asked and she smiled widely just as Kendra entered, followed by Giles who closed the door behind him softly and looked from one to the other.

"Hi," he greeted.

"Hi," Xander and Buffy said with one voice.

"So," Buffy added.

"Yeah," Giles muttered, not saying anything else before he walked past Xander and into the hallway. "We need to get going; everybody in here," he added.

Buffy looked sympathetically at Xander, who looked longingly at the ingredients on the counter.

"I'll make it after," she said, though she wasn't entirely sure when 'after' might be.

She glanced at the door, wondering where the other vampire was and hoping he wasn't staying away. If he chose not to show, it would be bad all around. He couldn't be that heartless.

**x**

The vampire was situated in the swiftly shrinking shade outside the large window of the living room, gazing at all the activity going on within, watching his childe with her family, her friends, and feeling farther away from her than ever.

Why had he followed her here? What had steered his feet to her instead of where he had meant them to go? What was he really doing there?

He watched her pale face as she smiled at her mother. There was something missing in that smile, as though it had been snapped somewhere, distorted in a way that only he could see. Because he had done it, he had stolen that missing bit that made her not quite fit into this frame that surrounded her old life. He had tried to beat and cut and scream it into her that she was different, and though she hadn't seemed to listen or even react, it had all sunken in and now it lay there, just beneath the calm surface, keeping her from feeling a part of a group which she before had held together.

She was strong. Much stronger than he had ever given her credit for; much stronger than him.

She didn't belong to him, she never had. And she would die for his mistake.

Suddenly her eyes were in his and as she rose from her chair he backed away from the window.

**x**

The vampiress stepped onto the porch, leaving the door open behind her as she took a few steps forward, staring at the deserted street and understanding the simplicity of his actions. They were simple to dissect now. He wasn't coming back. She stared and stared until her eyes began to ache, her sight blurring as she leaned slowly against the porch rail. She didn't feel surprised, or even aggrieved. She felt nothing. She had been hollowed out when it came to her sire and he had done the hollowing with his bare hands, with full knowledge of what he was doing, waiting for this moment to finish the deed, to leave her behind once and for all and to show her that he had meant everything he had said.

He had never felt anything for her.

She clenched her fists tightly, her gaze unseeing as it stayed on the same spot of street.

"Buffy," a voice said gently behind her and she turned to face Willow. "We're ready to start."

The vampiress furrowed her brow questioningly.

"Start what?" she asked.

As they re-entered the living room, Giles had begun to light the candles, standing in a hexagon on a black piece of velvet spread out on the floor. The candles making up the hexagon were all dark green, while there was a larger, white candle placed in the middle of the formation. Giles lit the white candle last and without much ado, an object began to take form just above the flame, as if the heat of it kept it afloat.

The vampiress' eyes were transfixed by what was happening before her.

It couldn't be.

Only, it was.

An orb of Thesula.

The vampiress blinked, staring at the glass sphere as it softly landed in Giles' hand. He pulled it away from the flame, dropping it gently onto the velvet before shaking his fingers in slight pain as he looked up and his eyes met hers. She couldn't process this improbable lifesaver actually being in the midst of their group, arriving in the eleventh hour, as if it was some sort of impromptu miracle.

"Buffy," Giles said, rising off the floor and coming up to her. "We can try this, but we have to do it right now. I need you to say it's okay."

"Really? I didn't okay any of this other stuff," she mumbled, transfixed by the thing resting patiently on the floor.

It looked so small and insignificant: like a bubble about to burst.

"This decision doesn't even come near any of the other stuff," he remarked and she slowly moved her eyes to his again.

What she saw there was a plea, and she realized that he wasn't ready to say goodbye to her; that, perhaps, he would never be ready. She didn't feel ready in that moment either, and she nodded a little. Hope was like blue sky behind parting clouds, shining its welcomed color within her even when she had been certain it had faded for good. She might still be saved. She felt her mother's hand slide into one of hers and she turned her head to her.

"Don't worry," the vampiress calmed. "It'll be okay."

Joyce didn't look all that convinced, her hold tightening as Willow and Giles began to set up the scene for the ceremony. Retrieving a soul was never safe, never easy and everything had to be done like clockwork, or it would all fall apart.

The vampiress felt the Slayer's eyes on her and moved her gaze into hers. There was a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows, but the vampiress merely shook her head.

It wasn't important now.

He couldn't matter now.

**x**

Giles placed the precious orb inside the pentagram, looking at Willow, who stood hesitantly at his side. If only she could see how important this was to him. How he hadn't been able to forgive himself yet for what had happened to his slayer; how he kept going over the circumstances in his head, trying to find the second he made the wrong decision and sent her straight into the snapping jaws of that beast. Once her soul was back in her body, she would realize that she couldn't go on like this. She was under a hex, under the spell of the fiend who had bitten her and left her without one second's pause. She would come back to them, if this worked. If her soul was restored, she would come back.

The vampiress stopped in front of him. He didn't look at her, but motioned for her to sit. She did, cross-legged, before him. He took his position inside the pentagram, closing his eyes for a moment to remind himself of the words he would have to speak to begin the search for her spirit. It was almost as if he felt it forlornly circling nearby, waiting for him to act the savior and bring it back where it belonged.

He opened his eyes and fastened them in Buffy's, parting his lips to speak the incantation when he was stopped by an incredibly loud crack which reverberated through the room.

His gaze went to the orb and his eyes widened.

It was split in two.


	39. Time

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: Time**

_Slayer and Vamp and Sire and Childe_

The vampiress stared in confusion at the two halves of the glass sphere, lying between her and her Watcher.

"How stupid can you be, master Giles?" a voice came from the doorway of the hall and everyone's heads swivelled that way in surprise.

The female Guardian kept her gaze in Giles' mercilessly, the question she had spoken hanging tautly in the air between them, refusing to go away until it had been answered.

"I beg your pardon?" was the only response Giles could offer.

The lady shook her head in irritation.

"I asked you exactly how stupid you can be? Conjuring a soul? You were about to perform a volatile incantation out of pure selfishness, disregarding all that is at stake, as well as my words to your previous warden. Thus I ask you for a third time to at least try to explain your obvious stupidity."

Giles looked as if he was about to protest at the word "previous", but didn't get a chance as the lady looked away from him and at the vampiress instead.

"Hope is a dangerous thing. I told you: there is no salvation."

The vampiress took her eyes out of the lady's.

"You broke it, didn't you?" Giles asked, getting to his feet, removing his glasses with a jerk, his gaze furious and the vampiress wondered briefly if those glasses were even real, or if he wore them like a Clark Kent thing, hiding who he really was behind their regularly polished surfaces.

"Yes," the lady replied coolly. "It was not the answer."

"They're rare artefacts!" Giles sputtered.

"Will you please stop making a fool of yourself. Acceptance is a virtue when dealing with death. Accept that it's out of your hands," the lady instructed.

Willow looked mildly disturbed at the directness of the speech, her eyes meeting the vampiress' briefly and the latter saw tears glistening in them before her friend looked away. She wished that she could offer some sort of comfort, but the truth was as frank as the Guardian herself, and Willow had to understand that, they all did.

"You have a few minutes before we must go," the lady added to the vampiress.

"But... the dagger," Giles said, refusing to give up. "The inscription."

"Yes, the inscription you chose to interpret in a way that would favor your agenda," the lady replied.

"_Agenda_?" Giles exclaimed, the vampiress getting to her feet and placing herself between him and the lady as he took a threatening step towards her.

"Giles," the vampiress said. "Calm down. Seriously."

The lady looked mightily unimpressed, one eyebrow rising slowly as she observed the Watcher. She took a step forward as well, and said:

"You were right about the first few symbols. The sunrise, the vessel and the soul searching for it – but the last few symbols do not represent rebirth. The path was struck through with the inc'ha'barh, the end of the line, the symbol for death. There was another strong indication that it was not a blessing, but a curse you were reading: the fact that the last triangle was full of jagged marks; a darkened symbol never declares good, but evil. Her soul entering her body would have caused the demon to fight it, and as the curse would have been aiding it, the demon would have easily won. The final glaringly obvious clue was the X at the end of the inscription. You chose not to interpret it the way you would have anywhere else – as the symbol of a curse. Not to mention the fact that the dagger's history is bloodier than that of Attila, and that its path never has been that of sunlit quietude."

Giles seemed unable to reciprocate, but simply glared at the woman until the vampiress felt like grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look away.

"Giles," she said softly and finally his eyes met hers. "She's here to help."

He stared at her, and then turned away with a slight nod, excusing himself and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Where is the Mark?" the lady asked.

"Oh," Willow mumbled, her voice cracking slightly and the vampiress moved up to her, gently wrapping one arm around her shoulders as Willow swiped at her tears. "It's back at Giles'. I didn't-... I mean, I was hoping..."

She trailed off and the vampiress smiled a little at her.

"Would you go and get it and bring it to the high school?" the lady inquired, Willow blinking at the wetness, which didn't help in stopping it, but merely made it run slow rivers down her cheeks as she nodded in agreement.

Oz took the vampiress' place at her side, holding her tenderly as they headed for the front door.

"We will leave in fifteen minutes," the lady said. "We'll take the tunnels; they will take us very near the school."

"They will _not_," Spike chimed in and she turned her head to him.

"Blankets will be provided for those who suffer sun-intolerance. And we _will_ get close to the school. Trust me," she said, turning to the vampiress and reaching out a hand. "Let me speak with you," she added.

The vampiress took the steps parting them, sliding her hand into the Guardian's and walking with her to the stairs, continuing up them with her body growing heavy at the realization that she would never climb these steps again.

**x**

The vampiress touched her brush, a necklace her father had given her, a ring she had forgotten about, items resting on her dressing table and looking like pieces of a dream. Her whole life seemed like a dream. She turned to face the lady, who stood behind her, by the foot of her bed.

"It's important that your ties to this life aren't knotted in any way. Do you have any unresolved issues?" the lady asked. "Anyone you need to speak with?"

Buffy watched her face, how it seemed soft and harsh at the same time, understanding and questioning, supportive and damning. It was as if she couldn't quite grasp the full extent of emotion tumbling within the vampiress, as if she had lived for too long to be able to make any sense of it, but she could come close enough for sympathy. Buffy wondered how old she was.

"Yeah," the vampiress finally said.

"I'll tell him to come up," the lady said with a slight smile, exiting the room.

The vampiress sat on her bed and thought of all those evenings he had come to see her in this room, a shadow at first, a mystery that somehow made her feel safe, and how easy it had been to fall in love with him. She looked up when he stopped in the doorway. He looked insecure, and she hated it. She hated that this was what they'd been reduced to, after everything they'd been through.

She rose from the bed and was in his arms the next instant, holding him tight and burying her face against his chest as he gently put his arms around her.

"Angel," she said, just for the sake of speaking his name out loud, just to acknowledge him and make him see how much she appreciated that he was there for her.

He kissed the top of her head gingerly, his hold tightening as well.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled, her voice giving way for the sorrow that rose into her throat.

"For what?" he asked softly.

"For hurting you," she answered, pulling back to look up at him and he stroked her tears away before he smiled.

"I'll heal," he said. "Don't cry."

She returned his smile, and closed her eyes as he kissed her carefully on the lips.

**x**

The Slayer watched as the vampiress came back down the stairs. She looked calm, almost serene, and acceptance seemed the most obvious reason. The Slayer was still parted in her emotions: one half understood what needed to be done, while the other one had yet to fully comprehend it. What she did know was that soon she would be going back home. She looked at Joyce and felt sadness rise within her in a shock that couldn't be prevented. She turned her eyes away and got them stuck in Spike's instead.

They had barely spoken since that argument and that was hours ago. It felt strange, for some reason, that she would have kept herself so efficiently away from him for the last part of this odd journey; but then she had to think it perfectly fitting, because the journey should end the way she wanted the next one to begin. The way it would have to begin.

Now he looked at her as if he knew what she was feeling, as if he knew how little she desired to be parted from all the softness and dimness of this world, how little she wanted to return to all that was unspoken and hidden and suppressed, how much she longed to keep this feeling of Four Years Ago. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't break away from him, and finally he came up to her.

"Slayer," he said and she couldn't make out if it was some sort of greeting, or if he simply wanted to familiarize her with the well-known nickname – she felt like she hadn't heard it in a while.

"Vampire," she reciprocated.

He smirked, though it was tentative and mostly settled in his eyes.

They didn't say anything else, but he stayed by her and she was secretly grateful.

**x**

The sire vampire had a pressure in his chest.

He had thought this would have been easier, that once he was beginning to leave Sunnydale behind, he would feel the conviction of having come to the right decision. But he felt nothing like it, and quite suddenly he found himself ducking down to step through the low hole left in the side of the wall of a huge building. He walked through the familiar warehouse he had shared with Drusilla, raking his fingertips through the fine collecting of dust on the large table still standing in the middle of the space.

Something inside of him was dying, something bright and splendid and undeserving, like sunlight fading behind gathering clouds.

"There you are," a voice said gleefully behind him, two hands clapping hard, once.

He turned around slowly to face his sire, who smiled, widening her eyes and leaning forward slightly before she added:

"Found me."


	40. Sacrifice

Dearest reader,

we've come to the end of the road (and for those of you who I've replied to via PM, was wrong about the chapter count) ;), the end of the road it is because today I'm posting the final five chapters. So sorry for the delay, it was not my intention for it to take this long. I honestly, truly hope that you who have read this story have enjoyed it! Thanks to all of you who have reviewed (nichbuket, you've been stellar, and I was so happy to be added to your list of fav stories! Thank you!) or who, perhaps, will review, I'm very grateful to each and every one of you and you all deserve poppy fields and rainbows and Spike's doing his naked dance in your showers!

Much love,

Annie.

* * *

**Chapter Forty: Sacrifice**

_Sire and Childe and Slayer and Vamp_

Spike stared into the black eyes of the vampiress before him, disbelief gathering in his chest like pools of chilled water, the searing ache beginning to retract. How could he have forgotten about her edge, her rawness, her persuading madness that always spoke truths he didn't want to hear, but listened to all the same?

She knew him.

She knew who he was.

She was the only being on the whole godforsaken planet who had ever known who he truly was, had seen his potential and worked it into a shape that was recognizable; his darkened queen, his unforgiving ruler: had she felt lost without him to guide?

"You've been a naughty pup," she purred, clicking her teeth as she approached him. "I shall have to tie you up, I shall."

He smirked as her scent circled him, filling his nostrils with it, closing his eyes as she leaned into him, her hands against his chest; her mouth near his neck.

"I shall have to make you remember who your master is," she murmured, dragging her nails down his stomach, the thin fabric of his T-shirt merely hinting at what damage she would have done to his skin. "You want me to, don't you? Make things right? Right as rain for my poor Spike. He's been a lost little puppy, but mommy's here now. You won't ever go astray again. Will you?"

He was about to answer her when he opened his eyes again, meeting her gaze and feeling as though the gathering clouds within him suddenly allowed for a thin ray of light to struggled through, and the memories, within the space of a moment, appeared gloomy beyond comprehension and the need for her guidance felt preposterous.

He smiled then, at his own stupidity and cowardice.

Drusilla's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with pleasure as she moved even closer.

"Knew you'd come," she stated. "Knew you'd come here. 'S why I waited for you."

"So...I _didn't_ 'find' you?" he asked.

She giggled, twirling around him before stopping dead, her smile vanishing. Her eyes narrowed.

"_You_ are a liar," she murmured.

His smile faded as well.

"I know," he replied.

"I heard you calling, so I came. And now you're all," her hands grabbed his face in a harsh hold, "silent," she finished.

"Let me go, Dru," he demanded gently.

She adhered.

"Why did you want me here?"

"I didn't know I did," he answered.

"You _knew_," she nearly exclaimed, the fury twisting her expression into an ugly mask that he had never seen her wear before.

"Maybe you wanted to be here and thought you'd use my possibly wanting you here as an excuse to come," he said drily, moving away from her.

"What?" she demanded.

"You didn't come for me," he stated with finality as he moved up to the hole in the wall. "You came for you."

He left her standing there, a sulky expression marring her beautiful face.

"She will never be what I've been to you," he heard her mumble as he bent low again, proceeding outside. "You will never be what you've been with me."

She was right. And it was what was right. He could finally admit to himself what he had held back ever since the night he had claimed Buffy for his, claimed that brightness, chosen her. And the instant his feet touched the asphalt outside the warehouse he was running.

**x**

The journey through the tunnels went by in solemn quiet, everyone focused on what was about to transpire; Joyce holding one arm tightly around her daughter's shoulders, as though wanting to shield her. The Slayer watched them in the quiet, thinking about her own two moments of death and how she had only had herself to lean on. Perhaps now that the burden of the heritage they had both been consigned had been lifted off of the other's shoulders, she was allowed these moments of pure need of someone to offer their support – the Slayer had never felt that leniency: everything seemed always to be sharpened just a little extra to ensure that the only one who could survive bearing it was her. Except for in certain instances in this place, where she had been forced to rely on someone else in order to keep her mind from getting too muddled.

A sudden noise behind them made her turn her head to the side, focusing her energy on listening intently. Right behind her she noted Spike was doing the same before his eyes met hers. He wrinkled his brow, and she gave a nod, signing for him to come with her.

"Where are you going?" Xander whispered.

"Be right back," Buffy assured.

"I will come with you," Kendra offered, but Buffy shook her head.

"Stay with them," she said with a nod to the group before she followed in the wake of the vampire.

They made as little sound as possible as they kept close to either side of the tunnel, Buffy on the right, Spike on the left. They halted at the exact same moment, their gaze in each other's in an instant. Buffy knew he had heard it as well, the unmistakable, however soft that it was, clanking of metal.

They weren't alone.

They spun around and hastened their step back to the others.

"What is it?" the vampiress asked at the Slayer's expression.

"We have to hurry," she merely replied, snaking one of her arms with Willow's and the other with Xander's, beginning to tug them along mercilessly.

The vampiress looked wondering for a second, but her face soon cleared of the expression and the Slayer knew she had picked up on the soft trampling of approaching feet behind them.

"Calmly now," the lady spoke at the front as she stopped below a ladder leading up to a grate. "Master Giles may take the lead."

Master Giles didn't look very amused at being granted permission, but he did as she said and began to climb the ladder. Joyce followed him. Buffy kept a watchful eye on the dark tunnel behind them, controlling her breathing as the adrenaline was pumping through her entire body and she wanted the others to be safe already. Xander was climbing. Spike was pulling his duster up over his head.

"I'll go last," he said and when she opened her mouth to protest he silenced her with one look.

She could see a shadow move amongst the shadows and didn't hesitate before she climbed the ladder in the wake of the vampiress.

They stepped out onto the grass in front of the high school, the sky showing pale pinks and the vampiress shielding her eyes, quickly beginning to look ill, in pain. The Slayer watched Spike straighten up next to her before he kicked the grate back into place, his eyes widening at something behind her and she turned around, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of the sombre-looking, sword-wielding men that were approaching them from all sides – they only had moments before they would be completely surrounded.

"Calmly now," the lady repeated – her voice merely a murmur as the mercenaries closed ranks.

"There's no way out," Xander said, panic on his face as they all began to group together, their eyes darting around at the serious expressions of their captors. "How do we get past them?" he asked the Slayer, who shook her head that she didn't know.

The lady took a step forward.

The others held their breath as she raised her arms to the skies and closed her eyes.

"It must be finished," she whispered and it looked as though the air itself danced around her before she brought her arms down in a sudden movement, her head tilting back and a second later there was a shockwave rushing away from her; it left the group unscathed, but it toppled every single mercenary off his feet, knocking them out cold.

Buffy stared at the Guardian, who raised her head and looked at her with a small smile on her mouth.

"We have a little time," she said, reaching out a hand and grabbing the vampiress'. "Mustn't linger in the sun."

That comment got them all moving and they ran toward the steps of the front entrance.

**x**

The sire vampire jumped onto the porch of the house and grabbed the doorknob so hard that the wood creaked – but the door was locked. He tried again, but had to give it up and slammed his palms hard against the doorframe, leaning forward and forcing himself to calm down. There was no way he could run much further without using the tunnels, the sun was almost up.

"Move," he instructed himself, and he spun around, racing across the grass.

It wasn't too late. He needed to look into her eyes one more time, needed to mend that smile.

**x**

The high school lay quiet, it was still too early for anyone to be there but the janitor, and Giles knew he would be tackling the girls' locker room at this hour, so they slipped inside with the aid of Giles' master key.

A panting Willow and Oz joined them as they were halfway to the library, showing the dagger to the lady, who gave a nod, accepting it as Willow reached it out to her. After a moment, however, she handed it over to the vampiress.

Buffy held it gingerly in her palms, surprised at how warm it was – the blade had no chill to it and there was that slow, but steady, pulse being emitted from the handle. It lay before her, glinting dully of age and blood thirst, and she didn't feel as though she minded that much. This was what it had been created for.

She entered the library with smoke still rising lightly from her form, the tingling sensation, which had threatened to turn into a burning pain all over her body, was thankfully beginning to fade with so many layers of concrete and plaster between her and the wrongdoer.

Nostalgia at being in this space was pushing all the other sensations out of the way and she smiled a little at Giles, who returned it knowingly, as if he was thinking the same thing: their first meeting. How he had attempted to lecture her and how she had been mightily unmoved, having already lived up to the prophecy and knowing it inside out. It seemed this exchange had set the tone of many of their other discussions and her smile widened at the thought.

"Let's move this aside," the Slayer said to Spike, who gave a nod and walked with her up to the heavy research table, placed partially over the spot of the Hellmouth.

"We'll need to find something to break open the floor with," Giles said. "I'm afraid my tools are rather lacking, but the janitor's station has-..."

"Don't you worry about that," the lady interrupted with a slight smile.

"Oh," Giles murmured. "Alright."

The vampiress thought the table made more noise than was necessary as it was dragged and then lifted off of its habitual spot, as if it protested this sudden change of location, knowing it wouldn't get used to it, wouldn't feel as comfortable as in its previous position; but she also felt calmer than ever as she watched the place of the Hellmouth be cleared of any clutter and come into full view. This was what she was supposed to do. No regrets, no more wondering what might have been – what was, was lying before her eyes.

**x**

The sire vampire burst through the nearest tunnel entrance, sizzling, his fingertips glowing threateningly and he shook them harshly as he hurried along in the pitch black, his eyes adjusting so quick that he didn't even take heed of the darkness around him. Suddenly a large shadow stepped out of a passage to his left and all he had time to pick up on was the heavy blade placing itself at his throat as the stranger grunted:

"What seek you here?"

"Whoa, whoa, just out for a stroll, there, mate – no need to bring out anything sharp or shiny," he answered, raising his hands as his gaze met the dull eyes of the mercenary before him.

They were all the same – the lifeless expression on their faces, the vacancy of their stare, telling only too poignantly of how well-trained they were at forgetting about emotion, remorse, mercy. He could hear the footfall of others coming to join in the fun and he realized he didn't have time to think. Instead he jerked his head back, his throat cleared of the blade and he ducked down, swinging one fist into the crotch of the mercenary, who dropped his sword with a roar of pain. Spike grabbed it off the grubby floor of the tunnel just as the others reached him, taken off guard by him suddenly being armed, but not late in attacking him all the same.

Loud clanking slammed itself through the narrow space they inhabited, the scuffling of feet and the grunts as they delivered their blows mingling with the scent of adrenaline and rushing blood. He could smell it and knew that he was stronger than they were and that if he wanted, he could kill them quite easily. They were outnumbered as it were – four to one – and he was suddenly ravenous.

He placed a foot in the chest of one, sending him flying into the tunnel wall; he pulled the second's head down against his knee, having him fall together in a heap at his feet just before he swung the sword through the air, stopping it right before it sunk through the soft skin of the third's neck. The man had frozen in wait for death and Spike seized the opportunity to butt him over the forehead with the flat side of the blade, which had him fall to the side with a loud grunt.

The vampire smirked, giving them all a bow before tossing the sword back at its owner's side and continuing forward in his pursuit, he knew that time wasn't on his side, and he'd already had to waste too much.

Please.

It was the only word he could think.

**x**

The lady's gaze met the vampiress', who nodded, turning to Giles, Willow and Xander, standing together right behind her. She didn't know what to say to them, and they seemed to be out of words as well, so she satisfied herself with spreading her arms and embracing them all at once, feeling their hands clutching her tight and closing her eyes, hoping that she would get to remember them.

The lady stretched the arm holding the dagger out above the place of the Hellmouth, turning the tip very slowly downward until it was pointing straight at the floor and a soft ripple went through the carpet before it was sucked down by some unseen intake of breath, disappearing from view as it split to reveal a wide hole in the ground beneath the school. The lady took a few steps back as the opening above the hole widened. She appeared to have to struggle with the dagger in order to get it out of its current position and bring it to rest at her side.

The vampiress let go of her friends, her gaze meeting Angel's and she received a small nod from him, which she returned before smiling brightly. He couldn't smile back, however.

She got a hard hug from Oz before she reached out her hand to Kendra, who shook it solemnly.

She turned to her mother as the lady motioned for the Slayer and Spike to come up and join her by the gape in the floor.

"Buffy," Joyce said, struggling to keep a brave face on as her eyes were swimming with tears.

"I'm glad you're here, mom," Buffy stated gently, hugging her mother as well.

Joyce held her tight before the vampiress carefully stepped back and broke the embrace. She looked at Giles, who immediately reacted and came over, wrapping an arm around Joyce, allowing her to bury her face against his chest.

"Love you," Buffy said, squeezing her mother's hand before facing the Slayer and vampire, looking from one to the other.

Finally she stepped forward and embraced Spike for a long moment before she turned to Buffy, who smiled a little, their hands clasping.

"Thanks, for everything," the vampiress said.

"Us thanks?" the Slayer asked, reaching up and gently touching the spot of the bite mark on the vampiress' throat. "For dragging you away from your adventures in London and back to this?" she added with a smile.

"Yeah, for that," the vampiress smiled widely. "And... you know – everything," she added, the Slayer mirroring her smile before they hugged each other hard.

They broke apart.

The vampires remained next to the lady as she gestured for the Slayer to move to the opposite side of the Hellmouth. She did, taking her place next to Spike.

"You ready for this?" he asked, looking into the darkness before their feet.

This opening into the most unsurpassable dwellings of the earth; where evil came to rest, never to sleep; pulling at her every single day and making it all the more apparent what she had lost when she had been ripped away from the peace granted her after her sacrifice; there it was, looking ready to swallow her whole.

She looked at the vampiress before turning her gaze in Spike's.

"Ready," she confirmed.

He scrutinized her with sudden recognition; as though he had seen the expression she was wearing on her many times before and wished to welcome it. The familiarity of it made her stiffen slightly and she took her eyes out of his.

**x**

The sire vampire entered the school through one of the side doors, racing down the corridor with a trail of smoke after him, waving his hands around his head to try to calm his heated skin. He slowed to a stop, looking down the two corridors he had to choose from, going with left and getting his feet moving again. Where was the sodding library?

**x**

The vampiress felt the touch of the lady's hand on her shoulder and she gave a small nod. The lady raised her other hand, the Mark clutched in it. The vampiress felt everything slow down. Her eyes roamed the room, fastening on the faces of her loved ones, and she felt lucky to have them near her, reminding her of how they all had helped her, influenced her, led her to believe in the goodness of things.

She wondered at the fleeting moments that made up her memories, at what had made them so significant that they dwelled on the surface of her mind; perhaps it had nothing to do with significance, perhaps their clarity came from the happiness with which they had been made. Even the painful ones carried some amount of happiness in the freedom and life they reflected. Meeting Willow and Xander that first day of school. Learning that Angel was a vampire after that first kiss. Fighting hard and winning. Running fast, hard, with purpose. Laughing with her mother over something silly until neither one of them could stand upright and both of them were gasping for the other to stop. Spike's body resting against hers. His fingertips grazing her skin. His kiss. His bite claiming her, binding her.

The lady brought the weapon in one hand before them both, its tip directed at the vampiress' chest. The vampiress raised her chin slightly at the anticipation which began to spread through her.

"Naarhtabh eriitihbaht neraah'ch'tah'baht naarhiit," the lady spoke softly, closing her eyes.

"Should she do that?" Xander whispered to Willow, who also looked a little worried at the ladies seeming lack of judgment.

Suddenly the doors flew open with two loud crashes as they slammed themselves against the walls to either side of them and Spike came storming through them, slowing down just as the vampiress raised her gaze and met his.

She could hardly believe it.

He was staring at her in clear shock at her current position, but then, slowly, his face softened, and all she really needed in that moment was granted in the expression on his face.

He had come.

For her sake.

Suddenly a blinding pain gushed through her body as though her very insides were splintering little by little and her eyes went so wide that she thought they would tear and his face was streaked with a protest he didn't voice, but his feet brought him closer, or was she imagining it, as the Mark was extracted from the jagged wound it had made in her chest.

The blade hung over the open space of the Hellmouth for an eternity before a soft, white light began to form at its tip. It grew brighter and brighter until it engulfed everything around her and in the brightness everything around her slowly melted away.


	41. Stains

**Chapter Forty-One: Stains**

_Sire and Childe_

The brightness faded, and with it, so did the forms of the Slayer and the Vamp.

Spike reached Buffy's side just as she stumbled slightly, his hands grabbing her shoulders to support her, her back connecting with his chest as she slumped against him, his head reeling at the limp body in his arms.

Joyce's face was streaked with tears as she stared at her daughter; Giles had turned to stone while Xander's eyes were red with sorrow and Oz held Willow gently; Kendra stood to one side, head slightly bent. The silence was thick with mounting grief. Willow let out a soft sob.

The lady brought out a stark white piece of cloth, beginning to meticulously clean the blade of the dagger until it was completely free of blood, the cloth stained with dark-red patches. She held the cloth over the Hellmouth and said:

"Niihiraht."

With that, she let the handkerchief go.

It sailed gracefully through the air and into the blackness and with a noise not unlike an exhale, the Hellmouth closed itself, the floor of the library being instantly replaced and all seemed mockingly right with the world.

Spike held Buffy's shoulders, leaning her against one arm so he could look down at her face. He felt the acknowledgment of her absence would knock him off balance and he didn't want it anywhere near him, he didn't want it to bury itself in his head because then it would be part of him, digging holes through the fact of her having been there, with him: alive. His gaze drifted to the ugly wound in her chest, but he looked away when he realized it went so deep it was showing him the spot where the dagger had pierced her heart.

His whole being grew very still as his eyes went back to her face, her body still lying there, in his arms: was the magic of the blade so strong it was even keeping her from turning into ashes?

The loud noise of dozens of stomping feet came from outside the doors of the library, the clanking of weaponry followed as the feet all came to a halt. The gathered humans turned their heads to look at the unguarded entrance to the room, all of them having forgotten about the army vying to slaughter them for stealing an artefact that had, in fact, been given them.

"They're just trying to show off with their high numbers and many, many chopping things," Xander declared, failing miserably at his attempts to not look terrified.

"Well, then they win 'cause we have zero, zero chopping things," Oz remarked.

Joyce left the group to run up to Spike as he lifted Buffy into his arms. The doors, having swung back shut after Spike's brutal entrance, now easily opened and allowed the soldiers to spill into the room, swords drawn, clearly itching for a fight.

Joyce's hands touched Buffy's before she started sobbing again, leaning her head against Spike's shoulder and he glanced at her with a slight frown.

"Any bright ideas?" he yelled to Giles as the army came to a halt, their formation impeccable, their armor gleaming, their weaponry not a little intimidating.

Giles raised his hands, but before he could speak, the lady had placed one hand on one of his arms and made him lower them. She stepped calmly up to the soldier in front, wearing gold pleats on his breast-shield which spoke clearly of a higher rank. She bowed low to him.

"Intagara menne mej," she said, raising the dagger in both her hands, displaying it for the soldier, whose eyebrows rose slightly in wonder. "Ibana nama tuuha unah," she added.

The soldier hesitated before he reached out a hand and took the dagger from her. She straightened herself, facing him and bowing her head respectfully.

"Inaam," she said.

"Inaam ba," he replied gruffly, bowing his head as well. "Baramee," he then yelled to the soldiers, who all instantly turned around and exited the library swiftly, the clanging of metal slowly dying away.

The lady turned to face the nonplussed gang, staring at her in slight awe. She smiled at them all.

"Crisis averted," she said.

They all had oh-thank-God on their faces, Willow wrapping her arms tightly around Oz as she started to cry in earnest and he smiled a little, rocking her gently. Kendra slowly had a seat on a nearby chair as Giles came up to check on her, at his question she nodded a little and he smiled, his eyes still brimming with tears, but he didn't turn his head to the vampire, didn't seem to want the image of the Slayer to melt his brainstem – Spike could relate. Xander had crossed his arms over his chest, looking grimly at the floor, though his cheeks were glistening. And Joyce really was the most disturbing of all, where she was leaning her forehead against his left shoulder, her hands clutching at the sleeve of the duster as she trembled from her grief.

He wished there was something he could say to ease it, but he couldn't even think. He should be crying with them, screaming, he should be expressing something, but he couldn't feel. He couldn't feel anything. He was empty, hollow. It was the strangest feeling, really. He didn't know what to do with it. What could he do with it?

Spike jerked his eyes from the top of Joyce's head as he could have sworn he had felt...

No.

But there it was again.

And under his astounded gaze, Buffy's arm moved from her stomach to her face where her fingers languidly rubbed one eye before she opened both of them and looked up at the ceiling, quizzically.

He noted with growing wonder that the gash in her chest had nearly closed before she gave a low moan, her hands placing themselves over the spot of it.

"I'm dying," she groaned.

He closed his eyes at the billowing relief that expanded itself throughout him at the sound of her voice.

All around the room there was a sudden pause, as though everyone's brains needed half a second to reset themselves to this sudden turn of events. Willow turned out of Oz's arms, Kendra rose to her feet, Xander let the floor fend for itself and Giles slowly removed his glasses as they all turned their eyes on the vampire and the person propped in his arms.

"No, you're healing," the lady said, having come up to stand beside them, reaching out a hand and placing it on Buffy's forehead.

"You knew this was going to happen?" Joyce asked, having taken a step away from Spike at the sound of her daughter's voice.

Joyce was incredulous, but she was also blinking the sorrow out of her eyes as anger quickly replaced it.

"Yes," the lady answered her question.

"And you let us go through that?" Joyce inquired, her voice beginning to shake with barely controlled emotion.

"It was necessary," the lady replied simply.

"Necessary?" Joyce asked.

"There could be no loose ends," the lady said. "She had to step willingly onto the altar or it would all have been for nothing. If she had hesitated for even a moment, the curse would have been set into motion instead of the blessing and she would have been lost to you."

"Blessing?" Giles asked.

"'Thou who wieldeth me, steady thine hand'," the lady replied.

He stared at her as if she had just revealed the eighth wonder, and she smiled gently again.

"A steady hand was necessary, and that was why I took it upon myself to help you with the task. I have watched over the slayer line for a very long time, but I have never been involved in their lives the way that you have been involved in hers – your hand would have faltered."

Giles couldn't contest this.

"The sacrifice of red on white is a very old ritual, one that is not spoken of in any history books or even in any attachment to the Mark of Nebulon. I know of it because the first Guardian was there when it was put in motion, and now it seems it has moved through time in order for me to be able to use it today. Blood does not need to be spilled in gallons to still the hunger of that which is demanding a sacrifice. This is true especially of the Mark, as it thrives on destruction, but needs only a few drops to smear and cover the entirety of its blade. She will live. You should be happy," she finished, her gaze meeting Joyce's.

**x**

They all returned, exhausted and thoughtful, to the house, Buffy already restored enough to walk by herself, with a little help from Willow.

Spike kept to the background as Buffy sat down laboriously on the sofa and was immediately embraced by her mother for about the hundredth time.

"It's okay, mom," Buffy mumbled.

Her gaze met his over her mother's shoulder and the frustration over his own lack of control, in lieu of the budding situation he felt he could foresee, drove him out of the room into the dining room, where he sullenly leaned against a chest-of-drawers, crossing his arms and bending his neck as he mulled it all over.

She would want to stay here now, wouldn't she? She would probably want to join forces with the old Scoobies, now that she'd seen it was sodding possible thanks to his bloody body-double being in league with the Slayer. She'd hail Sunnydale as her home and that would be it. Because how could he stay here? There was no bloody way he could stay here.

"Despairing over the lack of shine in your boots, or are you just trying to see how far you can bend your neck forward before it makes that cracking noise?" Xander's voice interrupted his reverie and he looked up at the mortal, standing in the doorway of the hall.

"My neck doesn't make cracking noises," he replied. "And my buggering boots are never shiny."

Xander cocked an eyebrow and the vampire knew he must be looking wondering because the mortal said:

"In the library – you looked the way I felt."

Spike smirked in spite of himself and the mortal gave a slight shrug before disappearing from view.

**x**

"Is it always so sudden?" Joyce asked, stirring another cube of sugar into her cup of coffee. "It was happening and happening and there were so many things to take in and deal with, I barely remember half of it all, and then it just stopped. Is it always like that?"

"Always," Willow answered. "Except, usually it takes months and months for the things to happen and happen and then it stops. And we're saved. Yay."

Giles finished his second cup of tea, placing it on its saucer and bringing it over to the kitchen counter, about to rinse it out when Joyce stopped him.

"Oh, I can do that," she said.

He smiled.

"Don't be silly. You've had enough to do for one day, Joyce," he replied, turning the faucet on.

"Thank you," she said, his smile widening slightly. "But, is this what you do?" she added, turning back to the others gathered around the kitchen island. "Really? You have to stop the world from ending all the time? That's your job?"

"We think of it more as a hobby," Xander replied, leaning against the island, his eyes heavy with sleep. "Buffy's the only one considering it her job. Or chosen profession. Or profession chosen for her. She is the Chosen One. I mean, she was. What were we talking about?"

Willow patted his head comfortingly and he smiled.

"Oh, it's all too much for me," Joyce shook her head. "I'll need to have a proper sit-down with you, Mr. Giles, and you can go through it all with me in an Apocalypse for Dummies sort of way."

They all smiled broad smiles at that.

"Alright," Giles said, looking around at the exhaustion on all the gathered faces. "Time for some rest."

"_Some_ rest?" Xander asked. "I'm sleeping for a week."

"Is Buffy sleeping?" Willow inquired.

"I think so," Joyce nodded.

"Oh," Willow mumbled, disappointed. "I'll come back later, then. Tell her I wanted to hug her goodbye."

Joyce smiled.

"I'll do that."

**x**

Spike had placed himself in the armchair facing the sofa when the others congregated in the kitchen and he didn't see himself moving until Buffy woke again. He looked up, however, when a cup was reached down to him. Joyce was standing next to him. He took the cup: it was filled with steaming hot cocoa. He furrowed his brow, meeting Joyce's gaze. She merely smiled, taking the other armchair and sipping her coffee as she watched her daughter.

"When she was five, she loved the monkey bars – you know, those bars in the playground that you have to," she showed the motion with her hands and he nodded. "She was good at them. Really good. She was strong, even then. But one day we were at a different playground because she was on a play date with a friend, and this new playground was paved and really hard in places, and she fell and broke her arm. All that pain and fear I could see on her, I felt I had put it there, and I blamed myself for it. For taking her to a different playground. For not looking out for her better. For letting her climb those stupid bars in the first place. When Mr. Giles told me what she had become and why I hadn't seen her in days, it was the same thing. I blamed myself, asked myself if I could have done something to help her, keep her from making the decision to go after you."

He drew a breath to say something, but she silenced him by raising her fingertips ever so slightly. She wasn't done.

"I wondered, if I had watched her more closely, would I have noticed more of who she really was? The Slayer. The story of this girl having to save the world sounds like a fable, doesn't it? I suppose it is, in a way. What I realized when she was five is the same thing as what I've realized now – I let her climb those monkey bars because she loved it so much, and I couldn't have done anything to change her or stop her from doing what she did or choosing the way she did because she loves you." Her eyes met his, searching his face for a moment before she added: "Doesn't she?"

"I don't know," his voice faltered and he cleared his throat.

"I should hate you," Joyce murmured. "You murdered my daughter."

He felt guilt dig its way through him at the words, knowing there was nothing he could say that would smooth them over.

"But I won't hate you, Spike," she continued. "What's the point, when Buffy's with me again and she says that she doesn't?"

He wondered when she had said that she didn't, but remembered that she had spent an evening with her mother, and as the words were soothing some of the forebodings in his chest he wasn't about to argue with her. She held his gaze for another moment before rising to her feet, heading for the stairs.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "For the cocoa."

"You're welcome," she said, the stairs creaking in the silence as she ascended it.

**x**

Spike felt the nearness of his childe before he registered just how close she was. His hands rested on her arm and hip and he moved his fingers slightly before opening his eyes, noting that her head was below his chin and all he could see was blonde locks. He must have fallen asleep in the chair. She must have woken and curled up in the position she was in now, her weight against him. He breathed her in and wrapped his arms around her, feeling how she came out of sleep slowly, stirring, moving her head so that her lips graced his skin and his hold tightened.

"Buffy," he mumbled and she pulled her head back to rest her eyes in his, observing him with that same expression she had worn in London, when he hadn't wanted it.

And then she smiled and something resembling happiness crept cautiously into his chest. His fingertips graced her temple, sliding over her cheek, and the softness in her gaze went straight into him. How could he not have wanted it?

She rested her forehead against his and he closed his eyes.

The sound of the front door opening made her pull away and he wanted to take a blunt object to the head of whoever the intruder was; turning his opened eyes to the doorway, and noting it was Willow and Xander, the urge was nearly unstoppable, but the weight of his childe and the smiles the three exchanged made him gradually calm down, and thoughts of violence faded into the background in the same way that he wanted to, watching Buffy interact with her friends and understanding how far removed from it he was.

Drusilla's voice haunted him with her mocking words, no matter how much he wanted to shut them out, and deep down a part of him wondered if it was love he thought he could perceive in his childe, actual love, or if it was as it had been when he turned her – his own desire reflected on her face. Because she hadn't wished for this, all that had come of his bite, she couldn't have; his doppelganger – though a git – had made a point, a cutting-till-it-bleeds point, and it seemed stupid to believe that all that life she still possessed in her, that goodness and light, wasn't bound to help her see how wrong he was.

And when she did, whatever it was that she was feeling now would fade.

He watched her embrace Willow and felt as though it might already be starting.

**x**

The truth was that ever since her sire had come into her unsuspecting line of sight at the library the vampiress had felt as though she was floating somewhere outside her body, as though she was only partially present in all the moments which had followed, sensing the sounds and colors and emotions connected to them, but only as they drifted by and never quite settled near her or within her. She felt as though the blame for this disoriented state should be placed squarely on the Mark, for drawing her blood and making her see nothing but brightness; but every time her eyes fastened in Spike's, her head felt lighter, and so he actually seemed the stronger candidate, if there were to be any blame-placing.

Truth was, the haze was a comfort that she hadn't anticipated, and looking at everything around her in that slight blur simplified them until she felt she could fundamentally understand them in a way she hadn't before. Willow's worry was purple. Xander's concern was red, almost crimson. Her mother's unyielding support was orange and warm. Spike's relief was like a blue mist around his entire form, and every time she perceived it she felt happiness nudge her from somewhere indistinct. Soon, she was certain, it would spread its welcomed green within her: a wilderness begetting a wilderness.

She had allowed death to pass through her – a more vague and disillusioned death than that which had stilled her heart – and because of her clear-eyed choice, it had left her unscathed. She didn't know if it was dumb luck or fate, but she did know that she was never taking her existence for granted again.

She wished she could know if the Slayer had found a new appreciation for life, and wasn't still haunted by memories of the light that the vampiress had only felt surround her for one split second before it released her into the arms of her lover.

She met his gaze across the room where he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She was leaned against the edge of a counter, nodding her head and smiling every so often at the story Willow was telling, getting the gist of it, but being unable to give it her undivided attention, her musings leaving her with the fresh need to be close to him, to feel him need nearness too.

She had the notion of him feeling utterly misplaced and not knowing quite what to do about it. She didn't know what to do about it either. The only solution she could think of to make him relax was alcohol, and she couldn't exactly ask her mother for the key to the liquor cabinet.

When Giles arrived Buffy was smothered in a hug that was tighter than any she had received from the others and she hugged him back, feeling herself tear up at the thought of what he had obviously gone through over the past few days. His fight for her had been as personal as if she had been his relation, and it lingered around him like a white glow of adrenaline, making her understand how much she meant to him, and how much he would always mean to her.

She had been lucky when she walked into the library that day and it was him that was there to greet her with a rant she was already familiarized with, proclaiming himself her Watcher; even when she had cursed him for making her do monotonous things and slaving through training she felt unsure if she actually needed, she had trusted him and his judgment and let him lead her those times it had been necessary.

When he finally let her go it was with a smile, and she returned it just as she noted that the form of the vampire was no longer in the doorway, and that she couldn't sense him.

She furrowed her brow.

**x**

The tunnel was narrowing and Spike slowed his step, pausing for a moment as he heard a noise behind him, realizing he was being followed and getting ready to meld with nearby shadows in order to surprise whoever came to attempt an attack. However, a sensation of soft tingling at the nape of his neck made him relax in a rather aggravated manner, turning around and meeting the wondering gaze of his childe.

"There you are," she said lightly. "Been looking everywhere."

He didn't want to be so happy to see her, but couldn't shake the emotion, knowing that it must be showing in his eyes because her face began to bear the traces of a smile.

"I couldn't stay there," he mumbled, suddenly feeling weak and stupid.

"No," she agreed. "All the niceness flying around the place; would make you uncomfortable, wouldn't it?"

"It would, yeah," he replied, not liking the slight irony in her tone. "It doesn't fit me."

At that, her smile widened and he liked that even less.

"Why do you fight so hard to be what you think you are?" she asked softly.

"Why do you fight so bloody hard to not think about what I really am?" he shot. "Buffy," he added as she approached him, wanting to steer her off, but being unable to bring the intent onto his face and she halted before him, her eyes still in his. "You've never seen the real me." Her smile warmed, her hands placing themselves against his chest gently. "I can't bloody flip a coin and be something else," he grumbled, looking away from her, ashamed suddenly, thinking of the other Spike and how he had said, with mild disdain, that he didn't deserve her. "I'm a killer."

"No," she said, "you're not."

He met her gaze again and somewhere within him there was something that was beginning to believe in her more than all that had ever come before her.

"You're a good man," she stated.

"What would make you say that?" he asked.

"Trust me," she smiled, her face drifting very close to his and his whole being beginning to feel unsteady. "I know things."

He couldn't keep the smile down, brushing the tip of his nose against her cheek before catching her lips with his, kissing her deeply and pulling her to him, sunlight streaming through him until it blinded away everything else and he wasn't sure what would be left when it once more faded away.


	42. Integration

**Chapter Forty-Two: Integration**

**Slayer and Vamp**

The light surrounding them forced them both to close their eyes tightly. The sensation was different from that of being sucked into the light when they had been brought out of their own dimension; now they were being spat out, and there was a force behind them which seemed set on pushing them upward though their feet were still planted on something and refused to be lifted off of it.

Suddenly the light disappeared and in the stillness Buffy could see the vampiress' face and instantly understood the message, smiling widely as she opened her eyes and met Spike's.

"She's alive!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight, jumping on the spot with elation.

She pulled away, still smiling and, though he looked hesitant, he returned it, mildly questioning.

And then, there it was: a slow, pounding, uncanny ache spreading from the middle of her chest, sprouting branches like a tree as it rooted itself around her heart and made her feel as though it was squeezing it tightly and cruelly slowing its beats.

The sound of jingling bells made her turn her head to the side, feeling quite taken aback at the sight of her friends, sitting in a semi-circle at the edge of the muddy field, which was once more lacking the old high school building. They were all holding a burning candle each, and had some shape of a hat on their heads that Buffy had never seen before in her life. It was as though someone had taken a sane thought and twisted it into insanity. Giles' one was the biggest and most outrageous, made of gold and green velvet it had been warped into something resembling a contorted hand with rows of little silvery bells along each finger: a jester's cap gone horribly wrong. It was tied with a big bow at the side of his chin, and the fact that his eyes were widened in disbelief at the sudden appearance of the Slayer and vampire didn't do anything to help his appearance.

"It worked!" he exclaimed triumphantly, getting to his feet from his kneeling position.

Buffy quickly glanced at Spike and he seemed to understand her wish for them not to speak too openly about what they had experienced. She wasn't sure why she didn't want to, but felt as though it was a Pandora's Box, the contents of which would only lead to further revelations – ones that she truly wasn't equipped for at the moment.

In the background, Willow and Xander, Anya and Tara all shared rather stunned looks before they rose as well, watching Giles who approached the Slayer and the vampire, jingling all the way. Buffy couldn't keep her smile from broadening, even in view of his concerned expression. She kept herself from looking at Spike, having the strongest notion that whatever expression he was wearing would be too close to what she was feeling at the sight of her Watcher, and that it would send her into a fit of giggles that wouldn't be appreciated by Giles.

"Buffy," he said as he stopped before them. "Are you alright? What happened? It took us hours to deduce what the devil might have happened to you! The force field around this particular spot finally gave it away and we've spent another day working on a foolproof way of tracking and returning you."

"_Fool_proof?" Spike asked, Buffy giving him a look to stuff a cork in it, but instead a smirk split his face.

She immediately turned back to Giles, asking:

"A day?"

"Yes, give or take. Why? How long did you think you were gone?"

Buffy found her eyes drifting back to Spike's as she mumbled:

"Longer." His gaze turned awfully gentle and she looked away again. "Please, take that off," she added to Giles with a nod to the hat. "It makes me think you'll start doing somersaults any second and it's a little disturbing."

"Not to mention noisy," Spike chimed in, reaching up and flicking one of the hat's bells. "Did you sew these on yourself?"

"No," Giles replied, irritated, untying the bow with an incensed movement.

Spike smirked slightly.

The others joined them, all of them giving Buffy a hug, Anya about to reach her arms up and embrace Spike as well when Xander jerked her away with a meaningful glare at her. She looked quite incomprehensive, but walked with him as he linked their hands together. Willow wrapped an arm around Buffy's waist and they headed for the curb.

"So, anything exciting happen, wherever you disappeared to?" Willow inquired.

"You know, it's all a bit blurry, but as far as I remember, it wasn't that different from here," Buffy replied, stopping on the sidewalk and turning around, seeing that Spike was staying put, looking quite unsure of what to do with himself.

She was quite unsure of what to do with him herself, if truth was to be told.

"Wanna come for the debriefing?" she called.

"I think I should check on the crypt," he replied, getting himself moving. "You leave it for a few hours and looters flock like bleeding teengirls to a bagsale," he added, stopping before her. "It gets ugly."

She smiled a little.

"I'm not even gonna ask what you know about bleeding teengirls," she said.

He smirked.

"That came out wrong," he replied and her smile widened.

"Oh no, I've made you turn on the humility. Sorry, I know it must be painful for you," she remarked.

"Yeah, because you _wouldn't_ inflict pain when a chance so openly presents itself?" he shot, making her raise her eyebrows.

"Because I'm Inflict Pain Girl," she more or less stated.

He smirked again.

"It's the underworld's term for Slayer, didn't you know? It's also the name of a lady who owns an establishment in Peru. Might take you there one day; give you a taste of your own medicine."

"Right," she said, her smile growing wide again, "because you're so bad at doing that yourself."

"Yeah, I am, actually," he replied, touching the back of his head and her smile warmed without her really having anything to do with it.

He returned it though, so it seemed okay.

"Buffy!" Xander called. "Let's go."

"In a minute!" she called back, rolling her eyes as she faced Spike again. "I'm back five seconds and already duty's barking," she sighed.

His face softened and she realized that she was stalling their parting because the thought of him walking away felt strange after all the time they had spent together.

"I guess I should go," she said, thinking it odd how much it sounded like a question.

He tilted his head a little to the side and the question became a statement that made her smile and turn, beginning to walk away from him in the wake of her friends, feeling lighter with every step she took.

**x**

The crypt was dark. It was dark and hollow and bare. Cold. He felt cold in it. He felt truly dead for the first time in years. He had entered his home thinking he would sleep for as long as it took to cleanse himself of any memory of the past week; he would let his mind work through all the thoughts that tortured him and file them away into fitting compartments that he could easily pretend weren't even there. He wished for oblivion, but it wouldn't come. He lay staring for hours and couldn't even get his eyes to close. He could still feel her arms around him, her kiss – the ravenous, overwhelming strength of that kiss that had seemed to beckon him, to tell him that it hadn't all been in his head: she had been there with him.

And now, what he had anticipated, what he had felt like a tremor inside of him, had happened, and she would return them to the way they had been before, she would go back, when he couldn't.

"I bloody won't," he grumbled, sitting up and meeting Buffy's wondering gaze, her hand still resting on the ladder she had just descended.

She looked rather surprised, mirroring his emotions perfectly.

"Fine, then," she mumbled, grabbing the bars of the ladder and starting to climb up again.

He blinked, jumping off the bed and being upstairs in a moment, where she stopped in the doorway, hesitantly meeting his gaze.

"I'm going on patrol," she said. "There's a new gang of vamps in town, apparently."

"Thanks for telling me. I'll give them your worst if ever our paths cross," he replied, one eyebrow cocking questioningly and she gave him an impatient look.

"Wanna come?" she asked.

He wondered if she knew how uncomfortable she seemed with the idea, and how absolutely intrigued he was to find out what had compelled her to ask him despite it.

"Yeah," he said, grabbing the duster off the back of the armchair, allowing her to take the lead outside.

**x**

She listened to the door as he closed it, at how it shut with a slight bang, and thought she could hear a warning in it, one that had been sounding alarm bells in her head ever since she pulled her coat on in the hallway and told her sister that she wouldn't be late. As if she was saying something as simple as "Just going out for a walk" when she already knew precisely where she was going. Every single bone in her body was aching, and she had longed for a hot bath, her soft robe, and bed; but instead she had stepped outside for a patrol duty that she knew wasn't being enforced tonight. She knew it because it had been Giles' last instructions to her to go home and get a good night's sleep. And still, she was here, not there, and she wasn't even sure of the reason for it.

She glanced at Spike when he joined at her side and they commenced their walk in silence.

"How do you know she's alive?" he finally asked.

"Because I saw it," she replied.

"Like you 'saw' where to find them?"

"Yes, something like that," she nodded.

Silence fell between them like a soft sheet of rain.

She didn't mind it.

"So, why did you drag me out of bed at three o'clock in the morning? Second sight haunting you, or...?" he was the one to part it.

She gave him a look, but she wasn't annoyed, not even close.

"I feel like mom died all over again," she murmured. "And like I just crawled out of the grave half an hour ago."

"Ah, but when you crawled out of the grave you were disoriented and grunting like an animal, or so Xander described it. And you were dirty. And you had bloody weird hair."

She couldn't keep down a slight smile.

This. This was why she had come to him, why she had dragged him out of bed, why she had shunned her own. She had to forget about trying not to remember how good she had felt for a brief while in a place that she could never find her way back to again, and he had to play the part of the anchor one more time, he needed to give her a reason to not fight so hard against the memories of the other world, the same way he had been a touchstone of remembrance of this world while she had been in the other. The link.

"I didn't have weird hair," she muttered, making him smirk.

Why did she feel as though she knew him better, as though she'd gotten to know him? They had been fighting and screaming and done all the things they did so well, and the working-as-a-team thing had happened all on its own because they'd only had each other in a place that had been completely distorted and where the slayer was a vampire, so how could they not rely on each other to some extent? It had been for such a short time, so why did she feel like she knew him better? Like she'd seen something in him there that had been impossible for her to see here before, but now she could sense it, like cool fingertips against her heart. It wasn't discomforting, but it wasn't quite welcome either.

"I'm sorry about the kiss," she said, feeling how a quake went through her at the unplanned apology, the sensation threatening to travel to her fingers and make them quiver, but she clenched her hands into fists and prevented it. "Everything was..."

"You don't have to," he stopped her, observing her intently.

"I know," she replied, beginning to feel her nerves falter. "I think I should."

She heard how feeble the words sounded, even as she said them, more when she said them than when she had them in her head. Where were they coming from?

"Why? Think I'm sitting in my crypt pining for you, love?" he asked, his smirk widening.

She was beginning to feel ridiculous.

"No, I didn't think-... But you said... Well, I don't remember. But I thought... I'm sorry," she stammered, shaking her head a little at herself and smiling at him. "Sorry. Really."

"For the kiss?" he asked and his gaze drifted to her mouth in a way that created a dangerous suction in her stomach, her throat growing dry.

It wasn't supposed to still be there: this reaction; this tilting of her world whenever she was near him; it was supposed to have dissipated when they returned from that other place where everything was tilted and seemed the natural state of things. She couldn't find the answer to why it was even stronger here, like a heavy object weighing down on her, making it difficult to breathe correctly or stand correctly or think correctly or do anything the way she had always figured to be correct.

That damned kiss.

"Yes," she answered, the sound of stone falling heavily against stone making her turn her head toward it, her brow furrowing. "Did you hear something?"

"Your heart beat going from sixty to a-hundred-and-twenty?" he offered.

"No," she said, turning her head back to him and realizing he was close, very close, close enough to make her lean her head back to look up at him.

A terribly loud scream tore through the cemetery and Buffy raised her eyebrows.

"That," she then said.

She registered the teasing expression his gaze was wearing, as though she had just presented him with a challenge and he wasn't going to back down from it. It made her more nervous than anything else.

They didn't linger on the spot for long, but moved side by side past the crypt and in between the branches of a cluster of pine trees leading to a different part of the cemetery, both of them slowing as they saw a figure leaning over a body on the ground; the leaning was being performed by a vampiress wearing torn, black tights under a leather mini-skirt, heavy, black boots and a gray hoodie, which was too big for her and had the hood up, hiding her face. They saw her turn it towards them, but in the next blink, the vampiress had fled.

"I hate it when they do that," Buffy grumbled. "It's so anticlimactic."

Spike smiled and she forced herself not to return it as she quickly made her way up to the body, which was female and young, not more than sixteen.

"What's she doing out alone at night? Do her parents not know where they live?" she asked no-one in particular as she examined the girl's neck, which showed two fresh puncture wounds.

She thought of her vampire-replica, waking with these kinds of wounds to the throat, wondering what she had felt, wishing she had had time to ask more questions.

"Here," Spike said, helping her sit the girl up, checking the wounds as well. "It's superficial," he added and Buffy nodded, meeting his gaze and seeing no bloodlust in them, no wish to deepen the wounds and drink, and she wondered if that expression had ever been there before, or if she'd simply seen it now because she'd been expecting it.

She dug through the girl's purse and found her driver's license, checking the address and looking at the picture, thinking it was the kind of picture she would have wanted on her driver's license, had she ever managed to master the trickiness of driving.

"Let's get her home," she said.

**x**

She rang the doorbell, waiting until the lights went on in a room upstairs before she hurried down the steps and further down the sidewalk, out of sight just as she heard the door open and someone exclaim the girl's name. She rounded a large bush and stopped before Spike, who stood waiting for her. Somehow it felt nice that someone was waiting for her; she had rounded a lot of bushes and just had to carry on walking, all alone, but here he was, looking at her and waiting for her, almost as if it was a natural thing for him to do. Like he had done it before, lots of times, when really he hadn't.

She knew that she had felt differently towards him since she came back from the grave, she knew that, and she was admitting it more to herself now than she had before their little bout of dimension hopping, because a lot of things had somehow been shifted into perspective. He understood her now in a way that her friends never could, he understood the darkness in her that wanted to fall off that tower again, be embraced by heat that turned to warmth and light and safety. He understood the part of her that felt like it was missing a soul. She had relaxed herself around him, she had sought him, had allowed him to be close, she had listened to him and he had let her be silent and not say anything at all.

But this, what she was doing now, this was different.

She hadn't wanted him near her before, but looking at him now, standing there, leisurely expecting her to join him behind this mass of branches, waiting for her as though it was how they behaved with each other, she realized that she did want him there. That she was glad he was there. That she had sought him because he was without judgment or prejudice and because she knew he wouldn't have stayed in Sunnydale and kept his promise if he wasn't somewhere good, in spite of all that evil she knew was still within him.

She smiled at him, quite suddenly, and his eyes turned curious.

"We're meeting at the Magic Box tomorrow evening," she said. "We're talking over Halloween and... stuff. Maybe you could help? Be the ghost in the basement, rattling his chains? Scare the little kiddies?"

He smirked widely at that; her smile broadening as well, feeling suddenly how her cheeks were heating up.

"What?" she asked, wanting him to stop his scrutinizing of her.

"I'll come," he agreed, "but if I so much as see a bloody sheet, I'm out the door."

"The sheets _could_ be bloody," Buffy mused and he gave her a reproachful look, which made her smile again.

They began to walk, and after a while Spike asked:

"This isn't an integration process in its early stages, is it? Because as far as I bleeding well see it, all the parts of the Scooby gang that are any good have been taken and I'm telling you right now, Slayer, I bloody refuse to play the buggering dog."

She had to laugh at that.


	43. Closing Wounds

**Chapter Forty-Three: Closing Wounds**

_Slayer and Vamp_

"Maybe you should give up on the idea all together," Spike commented the following evening, having everybody's eyes turn to him. "If it's causing all this bloody grief," he added, glancing nonchalantly at his nails.

"Who even asked you?" Xander inquired.

"Nobody's bloody asking anybody anything, 's far as I can tell. You've been talking at each other for twenty minutes and you lot're giving me a blooming headache, so pardon me for wanting to join in the niceness and make it stop," Spike shot, Xander blinking, trying to find something to bite back with, but being unable to. "It doesn't matter where things go or what you wear or who's what or why, bloody hell! The kids 'll love it 'cause it's a _magic shop_ and the grown-ups 'll love it 'cause it keeps the snot-monsters busy for thirty minutes doing something only mildly destructive."

"Destructive?" Anya piped up where she was sitting next to Xander. "There will be destruction of property?" she added, looking over at Giles with a worried expression and he shook his head to calm her, though he didn't look all that sure.

"Give out candy and you'll have to shove them out the door at closing time," Spike finished. "It can't fail."

"And how many shops have you opened?" Giles asked sourly.

"Two," Spike replied with a slight smirk. "Neither was mine," he added with a glance at the Slayer, who had drawn a breath to make an input.

She smiled a little, keeping his gaze in hers and he returned it. She looked away; her face growing concentrated on what Willow was saying on the topic of burning candles when there would be the run-arounds taking over the establishment. Spike thought the idea of fire might get interesting, but he decided to keep his trap shut about it. He wasn't there to contribute. He didn't know why he was there, exactly; but it wasn't to participate. His participation so far hadn't been any kind of valid voicing of opinion, not really.

Whenever he managed to get Buffy's eyes in his, however, there was a heat that rose through him and made him want to jerk her away from that room and ask her what the hell she thought she was doing to him. She didn't regret that kiss, he could see it on her, could sense how she didn't want to let go of it, even though she told herself that she did. She might be good at fooling herself, but he was done playing the idiot for her. And he wanted her to explain why she had come to him last night, why she had invited him here, if she didn't want him near her.

She rose to go and get the picnic basket Giles had brought and Spike got to his feet as well, following her silently.

**x**

The basement of the magic shop was laden with dust, making it look more the perfect Halloween setting than the shop itself. Thick, gray spider's web hung in the corners, made by what must have been hand-sized eight-legged insects. Buffy shivered slightly, wondering why Giles had put the basket down here, of all places. She stepped off the stairs and veered right, walking to the space underneath the steps where she spotted the basket in the corner. She bent down to get it when a soft tingling sensation ran down her spine and made her straighten up again, turning around to face the vampire, who observed her intently.

"Don't know if Giles brought blood," she broke the quiet. "In case you're hungry," she added unnecessarily. "Or maybe you've eaten already. Before coming," she continued, her nerves imitating the cobwebs in how they were slowly tangling with each other and she tried to make up for it with sharp annoyance, hoping to cut through the mess before it was allowed to do any serious damage.

The only one providing him with this sort of power over her was her, nobody else. All she had to do was reclaim it.

"Take your apology back," he said. She frowned, uncomprehending. "Kissing me was a choice you made and you can't take it back and it's scaring the hell out of you," he clarified, his voice low, steady and filled with such conviction that it was difficult not to hear every word like a hard clap echoing through her mind.

"I don't want to do this now," she snapped.

"Skirting the issue would be just like you," he remarked.

"The issue is that you can't let it go," she bit off, turning around and grabbing the basket, nearly pulling its handle off in the process, turning back around with the basket in a firm grip.

"No, I don't _want_ to let it go," he disagreed as she tried to walk past him, shoving the basket in his stomach to make him move out of the way.

He smiled a little.

"Wasn't the kinda kiss you're likely to forget, love," he murmured and the tingling sensation down her spine was of a different sort all together this time, making her begin to ache in all the wrong places as her gaze rested in his.

She snapped herself out of it, her pragmatic side swiftly taking over.

"Enough," she said, shoving past him and heading for the stairs. "If you don't stop it I'll un-invite you to the rest of the meetings. You'll be as much in the dark as you were before."

"Yeah, that'll make me shut up," his voice rang out behind her as she pushed the door open and let it slam closed behind her.

"Buffy?" Willow asked, coming up to her, taking the basket when Buffy held it out to her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Buffy replied. "Just need a bit of air. Be right back."

Willow nodded and Buffy could feel her concerned eyes on her as she left the shop.

**x**

Buffy walked across the large lawn behind the sixth cemetery, which stretched its dark green toward the shadows of trees, standing sentinel at its edge, their jagged crowns reaching toward the night sky. She didn't know what she was doing here, but she felt like disappearing, and the woods seemed to be as good a place as any. If she could lie down and be covered by the underbrush and not have to deal with all this hurt she had brought upon herself, it would be such a relief. She hated that the only time she felt even mildly like herself was when his eyes were on her, watchful, observant, intense – as though she was all they could ever truly see, all they wanted to see.

She huffed at herself before she halted her step at the unexpected sight of a collection of furniture standing placed out in the middle of the clearing she had just entered. They were old, their gilded wood gleaming in the moonlight, their upholstery showing hand-painted peacocks with their heads perked up and their tail feathers trailing majestically on the ground.

"What the..." she began, the cracking of a branch alerting her to the fact that she wasn't alone.

She turned her head slowly to the side and her gaze landed in the yellow ones of an unknown vampire.

"Oh, bloody," she murmured, knowing she wasn't using the swearword properly – if there even was such a term – but not caring as more eyes began to show between the trees, their owners slowly stepping into view.

There were sixteen of them.

"Okay," she said, looking around at the hostile demons, feeling her body quickly and reliably fill with assertiveness. "Do we do this one-on-one, or is that unfair?" she added, ducking as the first vampire attacked, a second and third not late to follow. "Guess so," she smirked, kicking up a leg and hitting the second in the chest, swirling around and kicking the third across the cheek, sending him flying.

She felt a sharp pain in her right side and crouched out of the way, hitting the attacker behind her on the chin with a hard upper-cut, throwing herself through the air, doing a perfect handstand and kicking her legs out to the sides in a spread-eagle, decking a fifth vampire and sending a sixth stumbling into a nearby bush. She landed gracefully on her feet, turning around to take on whoever was next.

"You must be the slayer," the vampire before her said with a sideways smirk.

"Must I?" she asked, kicking him in the chest, having long nails pull themselves down her back and letting out an involuntary yell of surprise before facing the one causing such damage, her eyes widening as they landed in the blue ones of the vampires to be blamed. "Ana," she breathed, the vampiress' rage fading slightly in the confusion of hearing her name spoken.

Buffy was about to say something more when she was grabbed by the hair, the hold so hard it pulled her backwards onto the ground, a booted foot hitting her stomach as a broad-shouldered and red-headed vampire glared down at her.

She grabbed his foot, twisted it to the side before she pushed up, making him fly backwards as she got to her feet. Something stung the thigh of her right leg, but she couldn't be bothered by the fact that she was hurt and could feel blood like warm syrup between her skin and the tight leather of the pants she was wearing. She knew the scent would only urge her attackers on, and she needed to finish this before the blood loss got to be too severe.

She grabbed a thick stick off the ground, bent it over one knee and snapped it off into a better size, peeling some of the thick bark off with two harsh movements and checking the tip of the provisory weapon. She spun around at the sound of approaching feet, ducking at the same time as she thrust her hand upwards, fitting the stake perfectly at the place of the vampire's heart, turning him into a cloud of dust which hovered above her for a second, and then fell to the ground, particles sticking to her and making her shudder as she rose to her feet, brushing the remnants off her as she launched herself headfirst into the task of taking out the rest of the gang.

She was seriously out of breath when she stepped through the cloud of ashes to face the red-headed vamp, Ana lingering not far behind him.

"She your girl?" Buffy asked him with a nod to the vampiress.

"She's my childe," he replied, as if that explained it.

Buffy smiled slightly.

"Will you leave Sunnydale if I tell you to?" she asked, his eyes widening with indignation and before he could reply she had thrown the stake through the air, it sinking through his ribcage.

He looked even more indignant before he dissolved into dust, just as the rest of his followers.

Ana stared at Buffy uncertainly.

"How did you know my name?" she asked.

Buffy smiled again, turning to leave, but pausing, looking back at the vampiress, saying:

"Friendly tip, go to Milwaukee," she glanced at the antique furniture surrounding them, finishing: "They have some of the best shops for that kind of stuff."

She could feel the nonplussed gaze of the vampiress follow her as she disappeared out of sight, but she wasn't entirely certain that Ana wouldn't seek revenge for her fallen brethren, and Buffy felt her strength was leaving her too quickly for her to handle another face off.

She stumbled out of the woods, onto the lawn, dragging her feet across it, concentrating on her breathing and hoping that she would be lucky enough not to run into any fledglings with delusions of grandeur on her way home. She didn't want to look down, the hand covering the wound in her side feeling much to wet for comfort. She could see the gates of the sixth cemetery ahead of her, promising to lead her onto a street that wasn't more than seven blocks from her home, when they instead allowed the last person on Earth she wanted to see enter through them, his feet halting at the sight of her.

She straightened her back, trying to look indifferent as she continued walking, about to head past his frowning face when his hand reached out and grabbed her arm.

"I'm fine," she said.

He let her go, holding his hand up, showing the blood staining his fingers, his frown being replaced by his eyebrows rising meaningfully. He ushered her out through the gates without a word and she couldn't muster the will to protest, his hand at the small of her back was too much of a support; her eyes were growing heavy.

They reached his crypt in less than three minutes, but she felt like it had taken an hour, her entire body was in repair mode and was screaming for her to stop moving. She was about to sink down in the armchair, but he stopped her with:

"Don't sit _there_!"

She gave him a tired glare, but he ignored her, taking her up to one of the sarcophaguses and easily lifting her up to sit on it. He disappeared, returning with something that smelt strongly of antiseptic, pouring it onto a clean piece of cloth and pressing it without warning to the wound in her side, making her jerk slightly, the fog in her head clearing with the sudden pain.

"It'll only take ten minutes for it to close, you know," she said, twitching as the cloth cleaned away the blood, his hands bringing a piece of gauze over, beginning to dress the wound carefully. "Ten minutes," she repeated.

"You've been bleeding for more than that," he replied, not quite looking at her, making her raise her right leg so he could examine the damage done to her thigh.

"That's why it'll only take ten minutes," she said. "You really don't have to," she added, his eyes meeting hers and she wanted to wipe away all that quiet impatience she could see in them, that indecisiveness that made her think that he probably already knew that he really didn't have to, and he was trying to figure out exactly why he was still having to.

"You walk in like this and the Bit sees you?" he asked, though it sounded much more like a reproach and she tried to swipe his hands away.

"I wasn't going to just stroll in," she said, unable to get him to stop what he was doing, which she wasn't sure what it was, but felt like he was pinching needles into the skin on her leg. "Ow," she murmured, shifting slightly as he let her go.

"Take your pants off," he instructed, reaching for the antiseptic again, her eyebrows rising high.

"I will not," she said.

"It's deep. Take them off."

"I can clean my own wounds," she more or less realized as she said it, reaching out for the gauze. "I've been bleeding more times than I can count because of you, so what do you think you're doing? Seriously?"

He raised his hands in surrender, taking a few steps back and leaning against the wall of the crypt, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, observing her as she shimmied forward on the sarcophagus, looking down at where the floor was and carefully slipping herself off the stone slab she had been occupying. Her head was spinning something dreadful. She hadn't had so many injuries in a very long time and she'd forgotten how traitorous her body could be. She wanted to make it understand that she couldn't just lie down and go to sleep here; not here, of all places.

She struggled with the button of the pants, her fingers slippery with blood and unsteady with the fatigue which was taking over quickly. Finally his hands drifted into her line of sight, unbuttoning the button for her, pulling the zipper down and pushing the fabric down over her thighs, exposing the gaping wound in her skin, making her swallow hard. It was bleeding really badly.

He squatted before her, his fingers pressing the lips of the cut together harshly, making her wince, closing her eyes and trying to focus on something else, his fingers working with ease to close the wound and keep it closed before bandaging it. She opened her eyes into narrow slits, watching him work, finishing with another piece of gauze and wrapping a bandage a few times around her thigh.

He straightened himself, eyes meeting hers again, and her head felt lighter than ever. He grabbed her and lifted her onto the sarcophagus, stepping forward and placing himself between her slightly parted legs, adrenaline shooting itself through her veins as though she was being attacked again.

He placed a finger under her chin and made her raise it in a rather harsh manner, cleaning the scratch running down the length of her throat; getting her to turn her head the other way with an equally harsh push of his fingers and she furrowed her brow, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye as he gently pressed a piece of cotton wool to the cut next to her eyebrow. He put a piece of surgical tape across it before taking a slight step back, his gaze meeting hers.

She slowly raised her arms and he tilted his head a little to the side before he took hold of the hem of the sweater she was wearing, pulling it over her head and discarding it as he stepped close again. Goose bumps spread over her shoulders and down her arms and she wasn't entirely clear on what was causing it – the chill of the crypt, or his chest nearly connecting with hers as he leaned close, looking over her shoulder at her back, his hands exploring the gashes Ana had caused, his fingers running along them, making Buffy close her eyes and nearly lean her forehead against the crook of his neck.

She blinked herself out of it, but her head was beginning to swim with strange sounds and images and she knew she wouldn't be awake much longer. It didn't feel too bad.

Her hands moved to his shoulders, trying to keep herself sitting upright, but she slumped against him despite the effort, her eyes unable to keep open and she felt one of his hands gently place itself at the back of her head before he lifted her into his arms.

**x**

She opened her eyes.

She felt rested, renewed, as though someone had changed around her insides, switched the worn out parts for shiny ones; as though she was stronger.

She looked at the rough stones making up the ceiling of Spike's bedroom, wondering what they had born witness to during his stay. She wondered how many women had slept in his bed.

The thought made her sit up, the sheet slipping off her and she looked down at her bare legs. They were still bloodstained. They looked quite the fright, actually, but the bandage was nicely done and didn't show any signs of bleeding through. She was in her panties and bra, and she remembered that was how far the dressing-off had gotten before she passed out. She wondered at her reaction to lying half-naked in his bed being so slow, but she barely felt any sense of apprehension. Mostly she wondered where he was, because he was nowhere in sight. Had he even slept in the bed?

She rose, pulling the sheet with her and wrapping it around her as she reached the ladder, climbing up it, stepping onto the cold cement of the crypt floor and taking in the shafts of moonlight falling in through the small windows; reaching out a hand she let the blueness touch her skin.

She felt strange, suddenly: a mixture of absolute abandon and a mounting notion of having been left behind, as though she would give anything to capture that moment and stay in it, in that place that felt forbidden and yet so welcoming somehow, but also feeling that she didn't quite want to be in it alone. Not quite. And so the two emotions clashed within her and made her turn around, about to go back downstairs for her clothes when she saw them gathered in a heap, lying in the armchair. She grumbled, walking over to them to inspect the damage.

Shreds.

"I do hate this job," she muttered, looking up when the door opened.

A pail lead the way, apparently filled with water, and Spike soon followed, kicking the door shut and meeting her gaze.

"You're up," he said, putting the pail down with a loud grinding noise of metal against stone.

She felt undressed, bare and naked before him, but had nothing but the sheet to shield her with, so she resigned herself to keeping her heart under control. She wasn't tired anymore, she wasn't nearly out of it with blood loss and she cursed herself for being so weak as to let him bring her here. Didn't she have any sense of ramifications? She tried a small smile, not trusting her voice to hold if she tried to speak to him.

He returned the smile, coming up to her.

She took a tighter hold on the fold of the sheet, keeping the improvised gown together with fingers that wouldn't have been pried away even if the world was splitting in two and they needed the cloth for a parachute.

He didn't touch her, but gazed at her face and just as she was about to snap at him to stop, she realized he was looking at the cuts. He seemed pleased and she rolled her eyes a little at him for ever thinking she would be anything but fine.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"Guess so," she said, pulling the sheet up slightly, making him smirk.

"Nothing there I haven't seen before, love," he remarked with a cocked eyebrow.

"Nothing here you'll see again," she shot and his smirk widened.

"You sore?"

"I'll manage."

He had walked over to the pail and now he reached into it, pulling out a soaked piece of fabric, wringing it out slightly before tossing it over to her, her hand catching it more out of a reflex than the want to touch the thing. She made a slight face and he smiled, his eyes warming, making her feel just a little unsteady again.

"Better get cleaned off," he said.

She realized then that she _was_ sore. She could walk fine, she could even climb fine, but the thought of bending over to wash her legs off made pricks of objection run up her back and through her abdomen. The cuts were practically gone, but the hurt was lingering. She clenched her jaws together. This was beginning to feel like a complete set up.

"Could you...?" she began, trailing off in sudden embarrassment.

He gave a nod, gesturing to the sarcophagus from the night prior. She walked up to it hesitantly, a sudden sense of painful insecurity beginning to blossom traitorous petals beneath her bosom and there seemed to be nothing she could do to make it fold back in on itself and go away.

He approached with the pail, stopping before her and setting the pail down at their feet before he faced her. He placed his hands on her hips, resting his eyes in hers as he lifted her carefully, sliding her to sit in front of him.

She remembered one time, ages ago, when he had been lying bloody on a sarcophagus, suffering the kick-ass of a god that he could have been saved from, if he hadn't loved her.

He loosened the sheet, making it fall in soft folds around her before leaning down and dipping the fabric in the water again, wringing it out and facing her, placing the wetness against her skin.

She shivered a little and his gaze went to hers.

"It's cold," she mumbled.

"Sorry. Had to improvise. Got it from the hose they use for the flowers."

She smiled slightly.

"Classy."

He mirrored the smile, the cloth gliding over her bruised body, wiping away the stains of dirt and crimson, feeling nothing like his hands, and yet producing the same reaction in her as a myriad of goose bumps made the hairs of her arms stand up.

He brushed her locks to fall behind her shoulders and suddenly eager fingers of desire were reaching through her, tearing up old predispositions as they went, making her feel how impossibly dated her convictions were and how the fact that she had felt as though she knew him better now was because she was allowing herself to see him. He wasn't a blind spot anymore, he was realer somehow, as though a smudge had been wiped off the looking glass through which she saw the world, and his reflection was there among the other reflections. It shouldn't be, by all rhyme and reason it shouldn't even exist there, but it did.

"What time is it?" she asked, his mouth a centimeter from her neck, her back having water slip down it, followed by the cloth.

She had to keep herself from drawing a breath.

"Almost five," he replied, his fingers following the fabric as he began to examine the barely visible scars.

"They'll be gone in an hour," she said as he pulled back, one hand sliding over her thigh to the bandage and she straightened the leg a little to give him easier access, watching his face, amazed at how controlled he was.

He read her as though she spoke to him in some way hidden even to her, in a tongue only he could translate, and she didn't fully understand how that could be, only that it was, and always seemed to have been. Even in their first moment lay an insight in just how to throw her off, sway her confidence, frighten her into thinking that all that self-assuredness he possessed might actually serve him in his task and allow for him to kill her. He hadn't. He'd left and then come back. And stayed. All of their encounters slowly began to form a coherent chain in her head and in that moment it seemed splendid that this was where they had brought her. And yet, he was clearly unaffected by how it all was affecting her – perhaps he had stopped listening.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, even though she wasn't exactly sure what it was she was speaking the words for; which apology it was that had decided to come first.

He didn't quite react; his fingers were busy undoing the bandage, removing the gauze, moving over the closed wound of her thigh, sending trembles that were not unpleasant into her groin, into her chest. Then he moved away, walking up to the head of the sarcophagus and grabbing a dusty blanket from behind it, shaking it out slightly as he came back up to her, finally fastening his eyes in hers as he moved the blanket around her, wrapping her in it, watching her silently.

"If I learned bloody anything from seeing me like that; like that git; treating her like she was nothing to him, remembering how I used to feel, all that rage that I had nowhere to put, directing it at..." He trailed off with a huff. "This – I don't do. I'm not a sodding thinker, Buffy, I don't _introspect_, but it's different when the intro is right bloody in front of you. She loved him, and he threw her away because he was scared of needing her, and that's idiotic. Weak. So, I love you, and I say it to you so that you'll know that I love you, and I don't bloody well understand how you can think that I can't."

His voice rose and his face tensed, but he didn't move, he was still right there, and she reached up a hand, placing it against his cheek, making him look at her when he tried to shy away. She felt a small smile place itself on her mouth, and though she was frightened in the next instant of herself, she ignored it completely as she leaned forward and placed a light kiss on his lips, her smile widening slightly at the thought of another kiss, ages ago, so similar.

"I'm really bad at throwing things away," she then admonished. "I keep pretty much everything. You never know when it might come in handy."

She pulled back to meet his gaze, a slight smirk on his lips, his face just as disbelieving and confused as it had been that other time, ages ago.

She kissed him on the temple before wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, pulling herself close to him and burying her face in the cranny of his neck, breathing him in as he moved his arms around her as well; it didn't take long for his hold to tighten. Her smile re-emerged.

He pulled back slightly and she rested her forehead against his for a moment before their lips met, the kiss deepening within a second. His scent filled her head as his touches rushed her pulse and soon she had lost herself completely to the pure high his tongue was producing.

She was barely aware of being undressed or getting him undressed, all she could see was skin becoming exposed, the need to taste it driving her lips across his chest, down over his stomach, her fingers trembling as they got his jeans off him, his hands pulling her up so that he could kiss her again. And she was naked against his nearness and it embraced her and he was inside of her and all was a wilderness of color blending with color and sensations running into sensation and she clung to him.

She clung to him.


	44. Farewell

**Chapter Forty-Four: Farewell**

_Sire and Childe_

The vampiress stepped across the threshold of Angel's living quarters, looking around the small apartment with a slight smile. She had spent so much time here. He came into view with a questioning frown on, but soon he returned her smile.

"Still not used to sensing you in... the other way," he said and her smile widened.

"Yeah," she said. "It's a bit weird, I guess."

"Yeah, a bit," he agreed.

They grew silent.

She suddenly noticed the lack of personal objects on the shelves and the pile of folded clothes on the bed. When she turned around she saw the boxes. She furrowed her brow, looking back at him.

"You're moving?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Where?"

"Los Angeles."

She was stunned.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Los Angeles?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Why there?"

"Well, 'cause when I was there I saw this great old building and it got me thinking that maybe it's time for a change of scenery," he answered, looking away from her as he walked up to the bed, checking the three piles of clothes before reaching down and pulling out a suitcase from under the bed.

"Wow," she murmured. "I mean, it's good. It's a good thing."

"I think it will be," he said, putting the clothes in the suitcase, closing it before turning back to her.

"I think so, too," she said slowly, smiling warmly at him and after a moment he returned it with as much emotion.

She came close to offering her arms in a hug, but changed her mind, and left with an odd sense of liberation within her. She hadn't realized how badly she had felt for him, how guilty she had been over what she had done to him, how things had turned out, and now he looked as determined as ever to move on, move forward and upward and onward, no doubt. She was happy.

**x**

Spike waited for his childe at the curb, having had a seat, expecting it to take longer, being ready to give her ten minutes before intruding. She came out after less than five. He rose, knowing that he looked quizzical, but she merely slipped her hand into his as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and said:

"Thanks for letting me do that."

He smirked.

"If I'd said no I could anticipate blows to the head and bloody chains in a hostile environment, so it wasn't so much letting you as it was self preservation."

She laughed, and he felt good hearing it, it was like a testimony to what he could see in her eyes when she looked at him – the truth to everything she was saying to him, all the promises she seemed to hold for him if he would only ask her for them.

The night was still and cold, but inviting for creatures such as them. Looking at her as they walked down the street, her hand still in his, he came to the conclusion that his salvation lay in her not embracing the nature of her demon. He wouldn't feel this budding contentment with himself, with her and the world they occupied, if she hadn't pushed him to understand that the demon was not where he began and ended, and that she refused to allow it to take over and blind her into thinking the way he did. Her strength was bringing him strength to face himself, to see that where he had been brought by circumstance was not where he had to stay, that it wasn't the end, that it couldn't be the end if he still had the ability to choose, and what an easy choice it was with her by his side.

They entered a cemetery and he looked around, halting in his tracks not too many steps inside the gate, making Buffy stop as well; her eyes searching for his wonderingly.

"What?" she asked.

"I live here," he replied, her eyes widening. "The other me live here," he elaborated.

"Oh," she said, smiling a little. "It's kind of nice. Quiet."

"Yeah, well, I'm not moving into a bloody crypt so that's the last of that," he stated, making her stare at him at the marked impatience that had suddenly flared into his voice. "What are you thinking, that you'd live at home? Come see me in the evenings and forget about the rest of the buggering world? Can't do that. And you can't go back, love. You can't stay in Sunnydale and think that your normal life will come back to you, and you can't expect me to stay here with you. Bloody hell, don't expect that of me."

"I don't," she said calmly, but he didn't hear her.

"There are about a million and a half bloody places that I want to show you; you can't sodding tie us down here," he went on and she held his gaze steadily as she repeated:

"I know."

"Yeah?" he asked, skeptically.

She smiled again.

"I wouldn't expect you to stay here."

Her smile widened slightly and he watched her face curiously.

"What?" he asked.

"Well," she smirked, "what's the first of the million and a half?"

"First choice is yours, pet," he answered as she slipped her hand in his again and they resumed their walk.

She thought about it for a short while before she replied:

"London."

He glanced at her.

"You have the pick of the world and you choose somewhere you've already been?" he inquired.

She smiled crookedly.

"I just want to stop in on Zack and tell him about my progress. As a vampire goes, I think he'll be impressed."

Spike smirked, shaking his head at her.

"London, then," he agreed.

"And then someplace warm and secluded," she smiled, moving close to him and slipping one hand under the duster, across his chest, looking up at him with an invitation that he couldn't refuse, slowing his step as his lips caught hers in a deep kiss.

"Sounds good," he said, mouth still to hers, and she giggled as he lifted her and made her wrap her legs around his waist, carrying her off the beaten path and into the shadows resting beyond it.

**x**

"But, why?" Willow asked, eyeing her friend in clear trepidation at the news.

"Will, everything's different. I'm different," Buffy began, her friend shaking her head.

"You're not so different. Don't you ever feel the urge to just go out and slay something evil and sticky?" Willow wondered hopefully, growing disappointed at her friend's hesitant expression.

"Look, I can't stay here and try to be what I was before. Kendra's here to take my place. As the _Slayer_," Buffy felt compelled to clarify off the reproachful look she received from Willow. "I'm really sorry if this wasn't expected," Buffy tried again.

"It wasn't," Xander cut in, though his face was set and he looked more grim than ever before.

"It's not goodbye forever," Buffy said. "I'll come back and visit you. _Often_."

"How will you live? How will you even get by? Stealing money? That's what he does, you know. Steals," Willow said, looking as though she regretted her harsh words instantly, but the pain in her eyes was evident and Buffy felt as though her heart was breaking with her.

"We'll manage," she replied to Willow's question.

Giles huffed, though he refrained from saying anything else.

"You guys, you're my blood. You're more important to me than anything in the world, and I can't go away thinking that you're angry with me," she said, reaching out her hands and taking Willow's, her eyes traveling to Xander's and then Giles'.

They wore their stony expressions for another few moments before they finally looked as though her words were actually penetrating through their indignation and disbelief and sense of loss, and that they were tentatively trying to look at it from her point of view. She knew that they disliked her choosing Spike over them for a second time, but if they could only be able to see that she belonged with him more now than she belonged with them, then perhaps they would be able to forgive her.

She felt Giles' hand place itself on her shoulder, giving a slight squeeze and she looked up at him, mirroring the slight smile he wore.

"Come back and visit often," he said and her smile broadened.

"Cordy will be devastated that she didn't get to wave goodbye," Xander remarked with a half-smile as they walked up to the door.

"Oh, yeah, when's she coming back from...?" Buffy trailed off since she had no idea where Cordelia had gone for the holidays.

"I don't know," Xander stuttered. "I mean, I was just pointing it out, that she'll be 'devastated', 'cause she won't care. Not that she doesn't care. Not that I would know. First day of school, I guess she'll be back from wherever."

Buffy frowned, narrowing her eyes and he kept his gaze in hers for about three seconds before he glanced away. She smiled widely.

"I'll miss you," she said, hugging him tight.

"It's Christmas in three days," he murmured.

Willow came up and joined them and Buffy wrapped an arm around the waist of either of them.

"Yeah, can't you stay over Christmas?" Willow asked.

"No," Buffy replied earnestly.

"Clean break, huh?" Xander wondered quietly and Buffy tightened her hold on them, fighting back the urge to cry.

"New start," she corrected him. "Besides, I've a demon inside me; I can't sit around in church singing Christmas carols!"

This made the other two laugh tearfully, wrapping their arms around her and each other in a hard group hug.

**x**

That evening they stepped onto the porch of the house to say goodbye. It was more difficult than anything she had been through so far; Buffy looking at her mother and thinking how strange it truly would be to not see her every day. It didn't matter that they had already spent time apart, this time it was so much clearer an emotion, not blurred by cravings and urges she had had no control over the last time she left her mother behind.

It was a little windy, and Buffy felt her locks ruffled by a breeze as she handed her small bag of clothes to Spike, him stepping off the porch to give her and her mother some privacy. The vampiress wasn't sure when this more considerate side to his nature had began to show itself, but the last couple of days that they had spent in the house it had shown itself frequently. She smiled slightly at his back before turning to Joyce.

"So," Joyce said, touching her daughter's hair with one hand. "I knew this day would come, I just thought I'd be sending you off to college."

"I'm sorry, mom," Buffy said.

"No, never say that," Joyce shook her head. "I'm very proud of you for not killing a single person, even though you can," she added earnestly, the both of them looking at each other before smiling widely at the absurdity of that sentence.

Buffy wrapped her arms around her in a hard hug.

"I'm going to miss you so much," Joyce murmured, Buffy feeling tears rise.

"Me, too," she said, pulling away. "I won't be gone long. Maybe a month or two. Then we'll be back."

Joyce looked over at Spike where he was waiting at the curb, his gaze meeting hers and she smiled slightly, offering a nod, which he returned.

"You'll look after her, won't you?" she called to him.

"She doesn't need me to," he called back, his smile growing and Joyce turned her eyes back in Buffy's, kissing her on the cheek before hugging her again.

"Look after yourself," Joyce said, and Buffy blinked at her tears as they parted once more.

"You, too," she replied, turning and hurrying off the porch before she prompted on staying for another few weeks.

She was excited about the road ahead, full of anticipation at discovering places she had only ever read about. And she was looking forward to seeing Zack again, and meeting more of Spike's acquaintances. But she knew that she would miss Sunnydale something terrible, and she was happy when she saw sympathy on Spike's features as she came up to him.

"You okay?" he asked as she swiped the remaining tears out of her eyes.

"Yeah," she said. "Where are we going?" she added as they got moving.

He didn't quite answer her, but led her through the streets until they reached the old industrial area, where she began to have a vague idea of where they were headed, and she was right: soon they were outside the factory where he and Drusilla had been shacked up during their stay of terror. She was about to ask what they were doing there, when he walked up to a low vehicle covered by a tarp. That the vehicle was a car, there was no question.

He pulled the tarp off, revealing a black Camaro, its windows covered with paint. She smirked, meeting his gaze.

"Classy," she remarked and he smiled, opening the door and tossing her bag in, making a gesture for her to follow it.

She did, closing the door as he took the driver's seat, reaching under it and pulling out a key, which he stuck unceremoniously into the ignition and twisted once, the engine growling itself to life.

"How long has this been here?" she asked.

"Dru never liked it," he answered. "She insisted on travelling by foot when she got better. Bloody nutter that she was. Ironic, if you think about it: now we can use it. Don't expect she saw that one coming."

Buffy observed him for a moment as he paused and then he smiled.

"Guess she did," he then said, his eyes in hers and she smirked as well.

The car began to move, driving away from the factory in a manner of closure, as though their leaving Sunnydale was a cleansing act that would strip them bare of any residue pertaining to the old, leaving them in that much better a position to greet the new and it would be made up of colors Buffy felt she had yet to only glimpse. This was the beginning of everything, and here, at the beginning, eternity stretched out its welcoming hands, and she reached back in the assurance that she would get to explore it with him.

She hadn't believed that he would do this, that he would change for her after all the vehemence he had put into telling her exactly how little she should expect it; but now he sat beside her, his hand reaching over, his fingers linking themselves with hers, and she knew that nothing would stop them, they were too strong together.

She smiled as she looked out the window, her eyes reading the sign that they were just passing.

You are now leaving Sunnydale.

We hope you come back soon.


End file.
